The Despicable Dozen
by AKxx
Summary: A dozen despicable people are trapped on an isolated island. With no way off the island and a killer on the loose, the guests try to survive the paranoia and murders, while forming new relationships ... but perhaps with the wrong people.
1. Chapter 1

The Despicable Dozen – Chapter 1

* * *

 **A/N:** 1920's murder mystery ala Agatha Christie. [Octavia/Blaise. Hermione/Draco]

* * *

Steam from the train poured and billowed around the station as travellers waited patiently on the platform. The crisp autumn air surrounded the cluster of strangers, women sticking close together as the men stood in their own groups. Women travelling alone was definitely an unseemly event, but as Hermione glanced around her, she noticed that she wasn't the only solo traveller in her sex.

No more than twenty people occupied the platform, half of which were women clad in the latest fashions to overtake the 1920's. Cloche hats of all shapes, colours and sizes adorned many ladies; T-bar shoes, purple suitcases, stockings, the lot. There were more women waiting for the train doors to open than she had anticipated. It was a welcoming realisation. At least she wasn't the only lady travelling alone.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was only seven minutes, the train doors opened, granting access to the travellers and offering sanctuary from the winter gusts of wind. Hermione tightened her grip on her brown leather suitcase as she entered the train with a little difficulty, holding onto the barriers for support. Three women clad in colourful, costly attire brushed passed her with ease, making their way down the suddenly crammed corridor. She sighed as she scanned the busy train, searching for a place to sit amidst the chaos of people storing away their luggage and blocking the pathway.

"Hermione Granger?" A feminine voice spoke from behind.

Hermione whipped around to face the mysterious woman. But the mystery of the woman's identity quickly dispersed the moment she laid her eyes on bright red hair, more crimson than the blood that coursed through her own veins.

"Ginevra Weasley," Hermione greeted with a smile, grateful for the familiar face. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Indeed," Ginevra Weasley agreed, inclining her head politely. "Shall we find a seat?"

"We shall," Hermione conceded, turning to face the aisles of benches and open compartments.

The two acquaintances walked unevenly down the aisle, Hermione grazing her free hand over the railings to ensure balance. She came to a stop halfway down, two men clad in suits blocking her path as they stuffed their suitcases onto the railing above the seats.

Hermione waited patiently for the men to finish their tasks, politely averting her gaze to the floor. Ginevra Weasley, on the other hand, was a notoriously outspoken lady, waiting only three seconds before clearing her throat pointedly.

The men finished their tasks, the blond-haired man glancing over his shoulder at the two women. Hermione met his gaze, her lips parting improperly at the sheer sight of his attractiveness. Stormy silver eyes captured her full attention, light blonde hair combed to the side, a defined jaw to die for, and muscles that were almost visible through his crisp white shirt.

The blond man regarded her wild mild interest for a moment before stepped to the side and allowed her passage down the pathway. His comrade – a handsome man with a tanned complexion, jet black air and even darker eyes – didn't spare either Hermione or Ginevra a single glance as he took his seat.

Inclining her head in a polite gesture of gratitude, Hermione walked passed the blond man, feeling his silver eyes following her every move, gaze burning into her back as she took the only seats left.

Two women in colourful dresses and hats sat at the small table, the only two available seats across from them.

"May we join you?" Hermione asked politely.

"Of course," the brunette smiled, Ginevra and Hermione storing away their luggage before joining the two strangers.

"I am Hermione Granger," Hermione introduced. "And this is Ginevra Weasley."

Ginevra smiled tightly as she unpinned her cloche hat without much care. Hermione couldn't help but notice that Ginevra suddenly seemed a little tense. What was peculiar about it, however, was that she was staring at the brunette intently.

"Octavia Sinclair," the blonde curly-haired girl smiled, unpinning her purple cloche with delicate movements.

"Pansy Parkinson," the brunette introduced, shrugging off her white cloak, briefly meeting Ginevra's intense gaze.

The train began to vibrate, emitting loud noises to indicate that it was about to depart the station. Moments after, the train took off at a slow rate, steadily increasing its speed, leaving the four women to sit in a relatively awkward silence. It was always incredibly uncomfortable to sit with strangers.

Hermione fleetingly found herself wishing that she had taken the window seat instead of Ginevra, for it would at least allow her to gaze out of the glass at the passing scenery. The English countryside was always a spectacular sight to behold. Alas, she had taken the aisle seat and found her eyes wandering around the other occupants of the train instead.

Honey brown eyes rested on the blonde man from earlier, noticing that he had already spotted her. Without shame, his gaze burned into her thigh, his expression that of stone. Hermione's gaze shot down to her thigh, noticing that her dress had hiked up improperly, displaying the straps of her stockings to the blond observer. Filled with humiliation, Hermione quickly pulled down the hem of her modest dress, outraged by his wandering eyes.

The man's silver eyes snapped up to hers instantly, a devious smirk twisting at his lips. Her cheeks flushed noticeably, but Hermione dared not entertain his inappropriate gaze and, instead, returned her attention to her acquaintance.

"May I inquire as to the purpose of your travels?" Hermione asked politely.

Ginevra tore her gaze from Pansy Parkinson's, meeting Hermione's eyes. "I have been invited to attend an interview," Ginevra explained modestly, a little embarrassed at the admittance that she was a woman of employment. "A secretary position has become available, but I must travel to the owner's home for the interview. Apparently, the employer is quite poorly and is unable to leave his home for the time being."

"A shame," Hermione said. "I do hope he recovers, and I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you," Ginevra smiled. "Yourself?"

"A similar situation," Hermione admitted. "I have been invited to attend the home in which I hope to be employed at soon."

Hermione felt no shame in admitting that she was a woman seeking employment. As a governess, her career was considered somewhat respectable, but the employment was temporary as children inevitably aged.

"Where, if I may ask, are you travelling to?" Pansy Parkinson drawled, her voice slick with refined aristocracy.

Hermione raised her brows in surprise, completely shocked that the stranger was bold enough to address them directly. It contrasted greatly with her graceful manner that indicated her upper-class nature.

"Durrem Island," Hermione and Ginevra answered in perfect unison.

The table fell silent, Hermione and Ginevra gazing at one another in surprise, Pansy's brows raising to her hairline. Even Octavia gaped slightly.

"Why that is a marvellous coincidence," Pansy drawled. "Octavia and I are journeying to the same destination."

"Surely not," Ginevra said, a hint of bitterness to her tone.

"Indeed," Pansy nodded, ignoring the red-head's evident disappointment. "Although, Octavia and I have been invited to attend a dinner party, to be hosted by Lady Sarina Koppsynn."

"The employer who I expect to meet must be Lady Koppsynn's husband," Hermione said. "Lord Koppsynn is the title of the gentleman who sent me a letter in regards to the position."

"Interesting," Pansy droned, her tone contradicting her statement.

"Are you acquainted with the Koppsynns?" Hermione asked.

"We have yet to become friends," Pansy replied. "This will be our first meeting with the Koppsynn family. I believe they are new to England, if their foreign surname is any indication."

"The world is a small place," Octavia smiled, seemingly bored of the topic. Her tight blonde tresses appeared to be more interesting, for she set to twirling one curl in her slender finger distractedly.

Hermione was hardly a judgemental sort of person, but it took her little more than a few seconds to come to the conclusion that Octavia was a stereotypical rich girl – wealthy, pretty and vein. Friendly enough, but apparently superficial.

The foursome fell into a silence at the close of the conversation, finding nothing else to discuss to pass the time. They were worlds apart, in class and upbringing, so it was hardly surprising. Octavia and Pansy were evidently wealthy young women from refined families, perhaps a little on the snobbish side, whereas Ginevra and Hermione were working women, trying to make a living in a patriarchal society. Hermione was only acquainted with Ginevra for that very reason: They had both worked for a wealthy family in the countryside of Surrey a few years back. Times had changed, Ginevra had suddenly resigned from her position as house administrator, and Hermione had never seen her again. Until now.

Octavia was right. The world was certainly a small place.

As the lengthy train journey ticked on, Hermione couldn't help but wonder though. Coincidences were widespread, but it was quite strange that she and Ginevra found themselves on the same train, on the same day, travelling to the same location, to meet the same Lord, all in the name of employment with the same family. A coincidence, yes, but a strange one at that.

Hours passed, broken by short rounds of small talk, the occasional powder room break and snacks, but the atmosphere amongst the four remained stiff. Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there appeared to be some tension between Ginevra and Pansy, which was ludicrous. The women didn't know one another, nor had they been acquainted until that day. They hardly ran in the same circles, so why Hermione felt unease and tension radiating from the two, was simply beyond her comprehension.

After the incredibly weary six-hour journey had passed, the train halted to its final stop.

"Durrem Island!" The conductor announced to the few people left on the train.

Although, the journey wasn't over yet. A small boat ride to the island was called for once the invited guests had gathered at the port.

Hermione forced her stiff body to rise from the chair, all other occupants in the large compartment following suit. She expertly fastened her relatively cheap and modest cloche hat to her curly brown hair, the other girls performing the same routine before they each retrieved their suitcases from the rack above.

With a quick glance down the aisle, Hermione noticed that the blond man was still on the train, lazily slipping on his suit jacket. His black-haired comrade retrieved their luggage from the rack before fastening his own jacket to protect his body from the cold air outside, as well as his modesty. It would be unseemly for a man to walk around, jacket unbuttoned, in the presence of ladies, even if strangers.

As the four woman walked in perfect formation – Pansy and Octavia in front, the lower class ladies behind – toward the gentlemen ahead, Hermione stole a glance out the window. The sea was visible from the train station, giving her a small reprieve. For it meant that the journey to the port would be relatively short in distance, and for that she was grateful. Travelling surely took its toll on a lady.

A squealing sound caught her attention suddenly, gaze darting ahead, watching as Octavia tripped over luggage on the floor. The blonde went tumbling over, almost colliding with the tacky carpet, but didn't reach the ground. The black-haired, tanned man caught her just in time.

Hermione watched with mild interest as the obviously middle-class gentleman helped the snooty rich girl to her feet, his hands improperly gripping onto her waist. His near-black eyes were fixed intently on Octavia's face as she righted herself, the pair evidently staring at one another in silence before Octavia recalled her manners.

"Thank you, sir," Octavia muttered, brushing stray curls from her face importantly.

"Blaise Zabini," the man introduced himself, extending his hand toward the woman who was above his standing, so much so that she he should not have introduced himself at all.

Octavia blinked at his extended hand for a moment, entirely taken off guard. A few awkward moments passed, in which nobody spoke, but only watched. The blond man who Hermione had encountered earlier didn't watch – he stared unashamedly at her.

Apparently deciding on the best course of action, Octavia sniffed snootily before striding passed Blaise Zabini, ignoring his offered hand. Hermione noticed that Mr. Zabini watched her strut down the aisle with a smirk on his handsome features before he grabbed his suitcase from the ground – the very same suitcase Octavia had tripped on.

A one hour wait at the port, followed by a thirty minute boat ride and twenty minute hike over grassy hills, and Hermione found herself entering the grand doors of the château she had been summoned to. It was peculiar, however, that she was not alone. Hermione knew that Octavia, Pansy and Ginevra would be journeying to the same château with her that day, but not the others. Blaise Zabini, his blond friend – and pervert – had also arrived at the château with them, accompanied by four other men who Hermione did not know.

In total, ten guests stood in the lavish foyer of the grand home, each carrying luggage with them, and all greeted by the staff members. Strangely, only one maid and one butler were on staff at the château. For a home this huge, Hermione would have expected at least ten staff members all up.

A pudgy looking man stood in the centre of the foyer, hands clasped behind his back, adorning the standard butler attire. A maid stood beside him, a few inches back, demonstrating her lesser rank to that of the butler's.

"Welcome to the Koppsynn Château," the butler greeted formally. "My name is Neville Longbottom, and I will be at your service for the duration of your stay. To my left is Luna Longbottom, who acts as the cook, maid and handmaiden of the home."

Hermione glanced around at her fellow guests, almost daring to glower as she noticed the blond man eyeing her like a piece of meat. He stood close to Blaise Zabini, Hermione ascertaining that they were familiar prior to the trip.

"When can we expect to meet our hosts?" A man asked, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"We will be at full house by morning," Longbottom responded.

"Morning?" A red-headed man repeated incredulously. "You mean to say that our hosts are not here for our arrival?"

"Apologies, sir," Longbottom bowed his head. "I received a telegram an hour ago to inform me of their late arrival. Auto-mobile problems, you see. They were unable to reach the final train on time. I do apologise."

"And what are we to do in the meantime of their arrival?" Hermione interjected, polite as ever.

"I have strict instructions to ensure that you are comfortable for the evening, and to see to it that you each have everything you should need. Dinner will begin at precisely seven o'clock in the dining room," Longbottom answered. "Now, if we could have the ladies follow Mrs. Longbottom, she will show you each your lodgings. If the gentlemen will follow me, please."

A few shady glances took place amongst the guests, but the two upper-class women – Octavia and Pansy – seemed perfectly at ease. Perhaps situations such as these were common in their class, but to Hermione, it was all very untoward.

Alas, nothing could be done about it. For she was stranded on an island with ten strangers and one acquaintance, awaiting the highly anticipated arrival of her prospective employer. Until the Lord of the house arrived, or the boat returned to port, Hermione had no choice but to accept the extended hospitality.

Even if it all did seem a little suspicious.

* * *

The long mahogany table displayed generous amounts of various foods, ranging from bowls of roast potatoes to racks of lamb and platters of liver. Crystal wine glasses were filled to the brim with either white or red wines, a few snifters of brandy for the men. Hermione sat between Ginevra Weasley and Octavia Sinclair, Pansy Parkinson on the other side of the blonde snob. Across from her was the man who had eyed her thigh with extreme indecency on the train, seated by Blaise Zabini.

The atmosphere in the dining was room was thick with impatience, unease and discomfort. Everyone remained silent as Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom served up the last platters of food before departing for the kitchens. Presumably to ensure that dessert was prepared.

"Well," Pansy cleared her throat, catching the attention of all guests. "Given that we are to dine together, and there are no hosts present to perform the introductions, perhaps we should take the initiate to do so ourselves."

"Introduce _ourselves_?" Octavia Sinclair repeated, looking simply aghast at the suggestion. It was an improper thing to do for people of her standing. That much was clear from the horror sparkling in her big hazel eyes.

"Have we another option?" Pansy quirked her brow, delicately clasping her jewelled fingers around her wine glass.

"I suppose not," Octavia responded bitterly, her cheeks a little on the rosy side.

"I will begin," Pansy smiled falsely, glancing around the table. "My name is Pansy Parkinson, but you may all refer to me only as Lady Parkinson."

"Lady Octavia Sinclair," Octavia introduced with a drone, definitely less than pleased.

"Miss Hermione Granger," Hermione smiled politely, avoiding the intense stare of the blonde man seated across from her.

"Miss Ginevra Weasley."

"Ronald Wilby," the red-haired man gruffed, swirling his brandy with too much vigour.

"Sirius Black," a scruffy looking man said, his voice just as hoarse as his unkempt appearance.

"Theodore Nott."

"Harry Potter."

"Draco Malfoy," the blonde man said, silver eyes locked onto Hermione's gaze.

"Blaise Zabini," the handsome olive-skinned man introduced into his glass of brandy, black eyes fixed on Octavia Sinclair. The latter, however, appeared to have no interest in the gentleman of lesser status whatsoever.

"Is anyone acquainted with the Koppsynns?" Mr Potter asked, black hair a little dishevelled. Certainly working-class.

The guests at the long dinner table glanced around at one another, waiting for one of them to respond – to hold their hand up and declare a familiarity of sorts with the family of the home they resided in. But no such thing occurred.

"I believe they are new to Britain," Pansy piped up after a few moments of silence. "They are yet to forge any connections, it appears."

"What makes you think that?" Mr Ronald Wilby frowned, speaking with his mouth full of mashed potatoes.

The sight had Octavia Sinclair avert her gaze to the table, a fierce blush on her cheeks, rage shining in her bright hazel eyes. Hermione, however, had been witness to such indecency over the years of unemployment, associating herself with men in the lower classes via the occasional barmaid position.

"Their peculiar surnames for one," Pansy drawled, ever the aristocrat, showing no signs out outrage at Wilby's lack of manners. "The complete lack of decency at arriving late to their own home. Very European, is it not? And then there is the matter of the introductory dinner party that we were invited to, and the interviews for potential employees."

Waving her hand in the direction of Hermione and Ginevra, Pansy clearly indicated to the others that the two women were there for employment. The lady had made it very clear that she was in no way associated with either woman.

"What's a dinner party got to do with them being new to our country?" Mr Potter asked in thick London accent.

"Introductions," Octavia answered coolly, raising her little upturned nose in the air. "When a family of high position wishes to acquaint with others of the same status, introductory dinner parties are customary."

"Well I wasn't invited to that," Ron gruffed. "I'm here for business."

"May I inquire as to the nature of this business?" Pansy asked, disdain reeking from her pores.

"The private sorts," Ron grumbled.

"Are any more of you here for the dinner party?" Octavia frowned, glancing around the table. No one spoke, only waiting for another to pipe up. They didn't.

"How very odd," Pansy quirked her perfectly sculpted brow.

"There is something out of sorts," Ginevra commented, gaining everyone's attention. "When I received a letter inviting me to the island, it clearly stated that the owners were too poorly to leave their home. Yet, they are not here."

"Perhaps they made a quick recovery," Octavia suggested, the weak excuse not even convincing herself.

"Were we all invited directly by the Koppsynns?" Hermione asked.

"I wasn't," Mr Potter admitted. "I got told about my business with them from someone else."

"Argus Filch?" Mr Wilby frowned, side-eyeing the bespectacled man curiously.

"Aye," Potter nodded. "You?"

"Same," Wilby said. "Weird, innit?"

"Hardly," Pansy smirked. "This man – Mr. Filch, I believe you said – must be the estate advisor for the Koppsynns. It isn't unusual for a wealthy family to employ an estate adviser to see to their mundane affairs."

"It's who we spoke to," Draco Malfoy said crisply, swirling his brandy expertly. "Myself and Mr Zabini here were invited to the island by Mr. Filch."

"For mysterious business?" Ginevra queried.

"As it happens," Blaise Zabini smirked, his black eyes fixed on Octavia. "Yes."

The doors to the dining room opened, the butler and maid waltzing in, carrying platters of desserts for the guests. The occupants at the table fell silent, waiting patiently for their scarcely touched meals to be replaced by the greatly appetising sweet dishes.

"This looks divine," Pansy complimented, regarding her bowl of crème brûlée approvingly.

"Indeed," Hermione concurred, inclining her head at the blushing Mrs Longbottom to relay her praise.

"Thank you, ma'ams," Luna Lovegood smiled.

Once the trading of the meals was complete, the two staff members departed the dining room once again, leaving the guests to themselves.

"Well," Ginevra breathed. "If you don't mind me saying, this is extraordinarily uncomfortable."

Octavia almost laughed at the truthful statement, but quickly caught herself, maintaining an expression of complete indifference. Hermione inhaled deeply, suddenly embarrassed by association with the untoward woman, but Ronald Wilby and Harry Potter snickered in agreement. Sirius Black grunted, concurring with Ginevra's claim, while Mr Zabini and Mr Malfoy showed no reaction whatsoever.

"It is an odd bunch," Pansy agreed with an aristocratic drawl. "However, I am certain that we will make do until our hosts arrive."

"Speaking of our hosts," Hermione interjected. "Does anyone know when we should expect them?"

"The morning boat," Mr Malfoy answered, stormy silver eyes meeting her indifferent gaze. "As we were informed upon our arrival."

Hermione didn't miss the sarcasm in his tone, but chose to ignore it entirely.

"I merely mean to inquire as to the estimated time." Hermione countered coolly. "Morning is such a general term, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would," Malfoy smirked, a glisten of brandy on his bottom lip.

Hermione glanced at the drop of brandy, watching as he slowly licked it away, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. Completely ashamed of her inappropriate staring, Hermione blushed and averted her gaze to her glass of wine, Malfoy continuing to stare at her without care of proper conduct.

"Well," Octavia sighed, placing her dessert fork on her plate neatly. "It is no matter to me what time of day our hosts arrive. As long as they return before the dinner party, it is of no inconvenience to me. My only concern is the staff."

"Yes, they are clearly quite incompetent," Zabini grinned, teasing her with his blatant sarcasm.

Octavia met his gaze, her face like stone as he grinned deviously at her. Hermione noticed that Octavia's nose raised in the air again, as though it was a defence mechanism of sorts, demonstrating her higher status than that of whom she spoke to.

"As competent as they are," Octavia retorted coldly, "I must admit that I harbour concerns. I require a handmaiden for the duration of my stay, however the only woman on staff appears to be far too distracted by lesser duties to assist me. Without a handmaiden, I will have to dress and bathe myself, sir. So forgive me if I am concerned about the meagre number of employees at such an estate."

"Call me Blaise," Zabini grinned, Pansy gasping at his sheer nonchalance and familiarity.

"Pardon me, but I will not." Octavia sniffed snootily, her cheeks the colour of crimson. "And you may address me as Lady Sinclair."

Entirely unaffected, Blaise Zabini's grin faded into a smirk as he continued to stare at the blonde beauty, but Octavia averted her sparkling enraged eyes immediately.

The doors to the dining room opened again, much too early, for most guests at the table had yet to make a dent in their desserts. Mr Longbottom entered, pale as a ghost, looking rather sickly. A piece of beige paper was clasped in his shaky hands, the butler hesitantly stepping toward the long table, all patient and interested gazes on him.

"My apologies," Longbottom muttered, his voice shivering, much like his hands. "I do not wish to intrude, but I have just received a most disturbing telegram."

Blaise stuck out his hand, arrogantly appointing himself as the leader in that moment, taking the telegram from the nervous butler. His gaze darted across the paper, all signs of humour fading from his black eyes with each passing moment. Once finished reading the telegram, he handed it to his comrade, Draco Malfoy, remaining silent as the blond read the message.

"What does it read?" Pansy inquired, mildly interested.

Malfoy and Zabini shared a glance for a moment, communicating silently as the others watched with palpable intrigue. A few seconds passed before Draco Malfoy nodded, rising from his chair to address the ladies.

"Perhaps it will be best for the women to retire to the parlour room," Mr Malfoy advised, his tone severe.

"I do not agree, sir." Ginevra countered. "The telegram seems to bear less than pleasant news, and I wish to learn of it. I am in no way obligated to depart this room so that the men may convene amongst themselves."

"It is for the best," Zabini said, his gaze on a frowning Octavia. "I am sure that Mr. Longbottom will be more than happy to escort the ladies to the parlour room."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Zabini," Longbottom bowed, but no lady rose from her seat.

"I am comfortable where I am, thank you," Octavia drawled, making a show of sipping leisurely at her sweet wine.

Draco Malfoy clenched his jaw slightly, meeting the defiant stare of Hermione for a moment. Once it was clear that the women would not depart, he nodded once and re-seated himself, palpably bristled by their disobedience. But as two of the ladies were of a considerably higher status than all of the men at the table, the men were in no way able to control their actions or behaviours. Hermione and Ginevra were allowed to stay in the dining room merely by association with Octavia and Pansy.

"Wonderful," Pansy smiled. "Now that that is sorted, let us move on, shall we? I am most excited to learn of this telegram."

"Mr Longbottom," Draco summoned, handing the butler the piece of paper. "If you will."

Longbottom nodded as he took it nervously, clearing his throat, a sheen of anxious sweat glistening on his pudgy face.

"I apologise for what I am about to read," the butler muttered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I want to make it known that I, in no way, agree or concur with the accusations in this telegram."

"Continue," Pansy waved her hand dismissively, harbouring no interest in the butler's speech.

"Ahem," Longbottom began, hands shaking so violently that the paper shook along with them. "Welcome to Durrem Island. I, Lady Sarina Koppsynn, has gathered you all here under false pretences. Ten guests, one maid and one butler. Eleven of you are guilty of crimes too sinful to speak. Eleven of you have committed atrocities, but have yet to pay the price. Eight of you are guilty of murder, but have never been convicted of your crimes. Two are liars, adept at the despicable skill of deceit – actions that led to the deaths of two innocents. One of you is guilty of infidelity, but only one of you is innocent."

Shock vibrated around the occupants of the table, Hermione's heart beating so wildly that she was certain that it could be heard through the blanket of silence. Octavia gaped like a fish out of water, Pansy as white as the walls, Ginevra looking horrified. Most of the men seemed to on the brink of rage-induced fits, while Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini seemed to be perfectly at ease. Although, the two had read the telegram before the others, so had been given a few moments to process, whereas the others had not.

"There's more," Longbottom whispered, his hushed tone shattering the silence consuming them. "To survive your stay on Durrem Island, truths must be unravelled. For to leave, the innocent must be identified and protected. But heed caution, for even the innocent amongst you is the victim of all of you. Exercise sharpness of mind, for one by one, you will all pay for your crimes until the innocent is saved and sins are forgiven. Play by the rules, and you may survive. The first will die by morning. Enjoy your stay at Murder Island."

Absolute chaos ensued. Potter and Black jumped from their seats, roaring over one another about the madness of the circumstances. Ginevra screamed hysterically, shrieking that they must find a boat to leave the island. Hermione shook in her chair, sickly pale, unable to understand what had transpired from a simple job interview. Octavia and Pansy sat frozen in place, like stone, completely motionless. Wilby verbally assaulted Longbottom, claiming that he must know a way off the island. But Blaise and Draco reclined casually in their chairs, waiting patiently for the bedlam to simmer.

It took a while.

And then the accusations began.

"It's him!" Ronald Wilby bellowed, pointing his finger at the nervous butler. "He works here! He's in on it!"

"I'm not, I swear it!" Longbottom shouted. "I swear, I had no idea this would happen! I just work here!"

"For the Lady who set us up!" Harry roared, teaming with Ronald instantly. "You're her servant! You're in on this whole thing, aren't you?!"

"No, no!" Longbottom cried, holding his hands up as Potter rounded on him. "I don't know what is happening, I swear on it, sir! I have never met my employers! We were hired only last week! You are the first people we have seen since we arrived, I promise!"

"Liar!" Ronald roared, lunging at the butler.

Octavia shrieked, scrambling out of her chair as Ronald punched Longbottom square in the face, the butler soaring back onto the table. Glasses of wine and brandy, half-finished desserts, cutlery, it all went flying in the air, splattering on Octavia who couldn't stumble back quick enough.

"Barbarians!" Octavia cried, standing still uselessly, covered in custard and wine. "Enough! Cease your savage behaviour at once!"

Ronald Wilby didn't hear her hollers, or – more likely – didn't care. He quickly straddled the butler on the table, punching into the side of his face brutally, looking like a deranged madman.

"Stop it!" Pansy shouted, whacking her hand against the table. "There are ladies present! Enough of this useless violence you brutes!"

Hermione just sat there in her chair, wide eyes fixed on the squabble right in front of her, seemingly unaware of the brandy dripping from her hair.

"Do something!" Octavia shrieked at Blaise Zabini, the European man standing with his hands in his pockets, watching the fight with mild amusement. "Can't you stop them?!"

Blaise met her frantic eyes for a moment before he sighed and stepped forward. Draco Malfoy followed suit, the both of them hauling Ronald off the bleeding butler without much trouble. Ronald was thrown backwards, away from the table, colliding with the wall. His expression was wild with rage, blue eyes sparkling madly, chest heaving from sheer exertion.

Ginevra ran around the table to help Longbottom to his feet, lowering him onto a chair before checking his wounds. Superficial cuts from the repeated blows to the face, but no severe damage it seemed.

"I believe we are all in dire need of a cocktail," Draco Malfoy announced, wiping brandy from his face with a napkin.

*.*.*.*.*

Everyone occupied the drawing room after the bedlam in the dining room. Mrs Longbottom tended to her husband's wounds in the corner, fussing over him with concern, her hands shaking with the fear of their circumstances. Blaise and Draco stood by the bar, clutching their tumblers of whiskey, gazes scanning the others in the room, assessing and calculating.

Hermione sat with the other three women on the wide plush sofa, each one of them holding onto hot cups of tea, all silent. Ronald and Harry paced up and down the room, whilst Sirius and Theodore sat at the small chess table by the wall.

Nerves remained frayed from the telegram and brawl, only twenty minutes after the chaos in the dining room. Mostly, the women appeared to be in states of shock, but that was to be expected given their delicate sensibilities. Still; there was business to take care of, and it all started with figuring out a way off the blasted island.

"Are there any telephones in the château?" Pansy asked shakily, staring at the two staff members huddled in the corner of the room.

"No, ma'am," Luna Longbottom shook her head sadly. "We only communicate with the Koppsynns by telegram."

"And the next boat will arrive tomorrow morning?" Hermione pressed, hope shining in her honey brown eyes.

"I – I am not sure, ma'am," Mrs Longbottom murmured.

"You are not sure?" Pansy repeated incredulously.

"It depends on the weather, ma'am. No deliveries are due for another week, and if we are no longer expecting the arrivals of the Koppsynns, then the boat will not come."

Octavia released a shaky, almost hysterical laugh as she gazed down at her steamy mug of tea. "That's great," she whispered, on the verge of a breakdown. "We're just stranded here, then? Splendid."

"Weren't you listening?" Potter snapped, speaking to a lady of higher standing without respect. But it appeared that all decencies went out the window the moment that the telegram was read aloud. "It said that we can get off this island if we figure out who is innocent. And since I haven't caused any deaths by lies or murder, and I haven't shagged a married woman, then it's pretty clear that I'm the innocent one here."

The woman all flinched in perfect unison at the improper word that spat from his tongue, Octavia and Pansy in particular.

"I would appreciate it, Mr Potter, if you reminded yourself that ladies are present," Octavia whispered, cheeks flushed. "I do not wish to endure your despicable language, so if you please, control yourself."

"Oh, get off your high horse!" Potter barked, Octavia frowning down at her mug. "There are more important things going on right now than me offending you. Unless you have something valuable to add, then might I suggest that you shut up?!"

"Enough," Mr Zabini interjected, pushing himself from the bar. "While our circumstances are unusual, in no way does it permit you to speak to a lady in that manner. If you are unable to prevent vile profanities from escaping you, Mr Potter, perhaps it would be wise of you to remain silent altogether."

"Thank you, Mr Zabini," Octavia inclined her head, daring to meet his gaze for a moment.

"This is preposterous!" Sirius Black announced, slamming his hand on the chess set. "I came here to meet with Lord Koppsynn, not to play some ridiculous party game!"

"As ridiculous as it may be," Draco Malfoy interrupted, sipping from his tumbler, "the fact of the matter remains. We are here, and we are not leaving without a boat. A boat that won't dock at port for at least a week when the next food deliveries arrive – _if_ they arrive."

"I didn't kill no one," Ronald declared with absolute injustice. "I shouldn't be here, and sure as hell don't want to play this game. I haven't killed a soul."

"Perhaps you are the liar?" Zabini suggested, lighting an all-white cigarette for himself.

"I ain't no liar," Ronald spat.

"So none of us have killed?" Mr Potter asked, glancing around the room. The shaking of heads and averted stares answered his question.

"That's curious," Zabini grinned, cigarette hanging from his pink lips as smoke billowed out of his nostrils. "It seems that I am the only killer in a room of innocents."

Everyone's gazes snapped up to the handsome man at the bar, his black eyes fixed on a gaping Octavia. With an air of nonchalance, Blaise inhaled a long drag from his cigarette before taking his from his lips and exhaling.

"You're a murderer?" Hermione breathed, stiff a board.

"If you wish to put a label on it," Blaise shrugged arrogantly. "I am a man with a select few skills, with services for hire. Call it what you will, but it changes nothing. Either I am the only killer in this room, or I am the only one admitting to my crimes. So, everyone else must be lying, except one."

"What about him?" Hermione asked, pointing her finger at Mr Malfoy as he sipped casually from his tumbler. "You are both obviously acquainted with one another, so it only stands to reason that you are likely both guilty of the same crimes."

"I never claimed otherwise," Mr Malfoy smirked, swirling his tumbler, without a care in the world. "Mr Zabini and I are partners in our field of expertise."

"Oh!" Octavia laughed bitterly, slamming down her mug of tea on the side table. "Well, that's just great, is it not? We are stranded on an island with two professional killers."

"Eight," Zabini corrected with a puff of his cigarette.

"Pardon?" Octavia raised her brows.

"The telegram said there are eight killers on the island. You are stranded with eight killers," Blaise explained indifferently. "I am only one of them."

"You are despicable, is what you are, sir." Octavia sniffed.

Blaise grinned widely as he took a drag from the cigarette, the sound of the thin paper burning audible to the other guests through the thick silence. He pushed himself from the bar, stuffing one hand into his pocket, the other holding the cigarette as he strolled toward the seated Octavia.

"And what is your crime, Lady Sinclair?" Blaise smirked, Octavia scooting closer to Pansy. "Are you a liar? A whore? Or are you a kindred spirit of mine?"

"I am none of those things!" Octavia gasped. "How dare you insinuate otherwise!"

"Oh, I dare," Blaise grinned. "In case you haven't noticed, we have been presented with a mystery. And to leave this island, we must solve that mystery. So I will ask whatever I like to whomever I like, _My Lady_."

"I have no blood on my hands," Octavia snubbed snootily, stray curls framing her pretty, yet offended face. "And I am no loose woman, Mr Zabini."

"If most of us are innocent, why are we here?" Mrs. Longbottom asked without a trace of sarcasm to her tone.

"A game," Mr Nott said, speaking for the first time since the telegram was announced. "A game of cat and mouse. Whoever has lured us here wanted this – He or she wants us to turn on each other, accuse and point the finger. They want us to eat each other alive. That's the fun in it for a twisted mind."

"I think it best that we retire for the night," Mr Malfoy advised, placing his tumbler on the bar. "Too much excitement will only feed paranoia. Everyone will lock their bedroom doors, and we will reconvene in the morning to discuss our options."

Everyone seemed to be in agreement, mostly due to the shared desire to escape the company of killers and liars. Fear was widespread, but the need to flee surrounding danger was stronger. So everyone agreed, prepared to retire for the night. Prepared to figure out a way to leave the island in the morning.

If only they could.


	2. Chapter 2

Screams penetrated the walls of the Koppsynn château, sending panic to all those who heard. Hermione whipped the blankets from her body, all sleepiness leaving her as she grabbed her nightgown and shielded her modesty. As she scrambled out the lush bedroom into the hallway, Hermione's wild curls flew freely, framing her face as she ran down the corridor toward the source of the screams. Bare feet padded against the carpeted floor, her attire completely inappropriate, but in a moment of panic she paid it no mind.

As all guest bedrooms resided on the same floor, Hermione reached the source of the screams in no time. At the front of a bedroom door some of the guests were gathered and the butler, Octavia Sinclair shrieking like a banshee against the wall, pale as a ghost, hand placed on her beating heart.

Hermione was torn instantly. The drama had evidently unfolded inside of the bedroom they stood outside of, but as a woman, she should not enter. Her thirst for knowledge and trapped desires to break gender roles caused her to entertain other choices.

After a moment, Hermione raised her chin, clenched her fists and strode passed the others, into the bedroom, only to be stopped by Mr Malfoy in the doorway.

"You are not to enter," Mr Malfoy advised, his tone firm and authoritative. "It is not for a lady's eyes."

"You will step out of my way, Mr Malfoy," Hermione retorted confidently, meeting his sharp silver eyes defiantly.

Malfoy regarded her coolly for a moment, bristled by her defiance, but seemed to harbour a spark of amusement in his otherwise cold eyes. After a brief pause of consideration, Mr Malfoy nodded once, stepping backwards into the room, granting her entry as he smirked. Ignoring the smirk entirely, Hermione brushed passed him and entered the room confidently, only to stop dead in her tracks as horror contorted at her shocked features.

Mr Sirius Black lay in his modest bed, the white sheets no longer of that colour, but bright red from the blood that should reside within his lifeless body. Glassy eyes gazed up at the ceiling, a trail of blood seeping out of his agape mouth, a knife protruding from his gut. The grisly scene was only increased in sheer horror by the tongue that had been cut from his mouth and now lay neatly on the pillow beside his head.

As Hermione swallowed down the bile that dared to creep up her throat, she forced her gaze to follow the drops of blood falling down from the ceiling onto the corpse on the bed. The word 'LIAR' was painted in Mr Black's blood, declaring his crime for all guests to witness.

Feeling suddenly faint, Hermione stumbled away from the scene, internally scolding herself for displaying such weakness in her reaction. Mr Malfoy stepped toward her, an arrogant smirk on his lips, silently speaking those words that Hermione did not wish to hear, ' _I told you so._ '

"Perhaps it would be best for you to wait outside, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy suggested, but his tone left no room for negotiation.

"I must agree," Hermione breathed, unable to tear her wide eyes away from the crime scene before her.

Mr Malfoy nodded once, extending his arm to her in a polite gesture, Hermione delicately placing her hand atop his forearm. He guided her outside to join the now muttering Lady Sinclair, Hermione deciphering the ramblings as the words of a prayer. Whilst Hermione was not religious by nature, it was the proper thing to do in such a time – to say a prayer for the deceased.

Hermione approached the clearly distressed blonde against the wall, taking her hands in hers as Octavia's gaze snapped up to meet her watery brown eyes. A moment of silent communication passed between the pair before they both bowed their heads and began to pray in clear, crisp voices, a little shaky from their distress.

Neither woman noticed the two admitted hitmen watching them with mild interest and amusement from the doorway of the bedroom. Blaise Zabini reclined leisurely against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, black eyes scanning the dishevelled, free-falling curls of Lady Sinclair, an appreciative glint in his gaze. Mr Malfoy performed the same stare on Hermione's curls before he nudged his comrade to gain his attention.

The two men re-entered the bedroom, this time followed by Mr. Potter and Mr. Wilby.

"Where were you?" Zabini asked coolly.

"Down in the staff quarters," Wilby panted, looking as though he had run a mile. "We went to send a message with the telegram, but it's smashed to pieces. Won't work."

Zabini cursed under his breath, running his free fingers through his hair as he inhaled deeply. The suspicion in the matter wasn't lost on him, but before he could voice his implied accusations, Draco spoke instead.

"Notice anything?" Malfoy asked, inclining his head toward the dead body covered in blood.

"Other than a dead body?" Wilby spat incredulously, his voice almost shrill.

"Look at his left hand," Malfoy smirked as Zabini lit himself a cigarette, glancing at the corpse in the room and blood on the ceiling.

"What is that?" Potter asked aloud, evidently speaking to himself as he approached the bed.

No one answered his rhetorical question as he set to prying apart the fingers of the corpse, removing a crumpled piece of paper with difficulty. During his efforts, Lady Parkinson and Miss Weasley arrived, their gasps of horror heard from the doorway. But all men inside the room ignored the new eruption of women's hysterics, their focus only the paper that Potter unfolded without much care.

"What's it say?" Wilby asked, trying to read over Potter's shoulder.

"It's a statement," Potter frowned, scanning the letter before handing it to Mr. Malfoy. "A police statement with my signature on it."

Mr Malfoy swiftly read over the statement before his silver gaze met that of his comrade's, Zabini leisurely reclining against the blood-spattered wall without a care in the world. The handsome sir of European descent continued to puff at his cigarette, silently communicating with Malfoy with his gaze alone.

Zabini pushed himself from the wall, butting out his half-finished cigarette on a small table before slinking toward Malfoy. He took the statement from his pale hand as he inclined his head toward the door.

"I believe explanations and breakfast are in order," Blaise suggested casually, his hunger unaffected by the blood surrounding him.

* * *

*.*.*.*.*

* * *

No more than an hour after the chaos in the bedroom corridor, all guests sat at the dining table in the lush room that no longer showed any signs of chaos from the night before. Hermione fleetingly concluded that Mrs Longbottom had cleaned up the mess left behind after the brawl that had ensued. But it was not important, for everyone's focus was on the statement being passed around the table, and the dead body lying in a bed upstairs.

Breakfast meals filled the plates at the table, but the women had yet to touch their dishes, having lost their appetites to obvious circumstances. The men, however, appeared to have no issue with eating, most of whom had already consumed and finished their meals, now moving on to much-too-early servings of brandy. A despicable beverage that had the most awful effects on the most refined of gentlemen.

Mr Potter pushed himself from his chair, stalking over to the small bar by the window to refill his glass with the amber liquid. The atmosphere was thick with fear, suspicion and trauma, blanketing the room as the two servants entered to clear the table of plates.

"Longbottom," Wilby addressed the butler without proper manners. "It's best that you and your wife stay with us until we figure out this mess."

"Yes, sir," Longbottom bowed his head, looking close to upchucking as he guided his wife over to the fireplace. The pair took their proper stances by the unlit fireplace, hands clasped behind their backs, patiently waiting to be directly addressed.

"Mr Potter," Octavia croaked, her voice rough with the evidence of her earlier sobbing fit. "May I inquire as to why your name is on this statement."

Mr Potter kept his back to the table as he took the first sip of his brandy, Lady Sinclair inspecting the crinkled statement with blood-shot eyes. Her blonde curls were wild with distress, forced into an experimental bun at the nape of her neck, seemingly lost without a handmaiden to tend to her. Although, her attire was pristine, the Lady of fine standing dressed in a lilac dress that came to her knees, and a matching silk shawl draped over her shoulders.

"It's my job, Lady Sinclair," Potter answered after a pause. "I'm a cop and sign off on statements all the time."

"I see," Octavia nodded, still inspecting the statement intently. "However, I recall no familiar introductions between yourself and the late Mr. Black, so I must inquire: How is it that you can approve a statement, but not recognise the man in which you had business with?"

"I never met him," Potter shrugged, turning to face the occupants of the room. "Didn't even know his name, you know. Papers come through my office a hundred times a day, Lady Sinclair. Most of the time I just sign them without even lookin' at them."

"The telegram did say that we were all connected," Hermione mused aloud, taking the statement as Octavia offered it to her. "Yet, you have not met Mr Black until your arrival on this island, yes?"

"That's right, Miss Granger," Potter nodded. "Never met the man before in my life."

"Peculiar," Octavia commented suspiciously, narrowed eyes fixed on the cop. "The statement is proof that you are in some way connected to the deceased Mr Black. What is startling, however, is that the name of the gentleman he spoke against in the statement is censored. Do you not recall the nature of the statement, or who it was against?"

"I don't," Potter shook his head. "Like I said, Lady Sinclair, I don't remember even signing off on that statement, let alone who it was evidence against."

"It said he was a liar," Hermione frowned. "On the wall, the word 'liar' was spelled out with his own blood. The statement and your connection to his is no coincidence, Mr Potter. Whether you recall your association with Mr Black is no matter, for it is clear – to myself, at least – that you had approved a false statement."

"Maybe," Potter shrugged. "But if that is the case, Miss Granger, I assure you that it was unintentional. I was not the detective on whichever case that statement refers to. I would remember if I was."

"Statement and suspicions aside," Mr Malfoy interjected, speaking into his tumbler of brandy. "We have another matter to draw our focus to."

"And what is that?" Pansy whispered, still in a state of shock by the morning's events. "The dead body upstairs? How could we forget?"

Ignoring the sarcastic retort, Malfoy placed his tumbler on the table, taking his time to light himself a cigarette before speaking. "The matter of the corpse is precisely what I am referring to, Lady Parkinson. But more specifically, the cause of Mr Black's death. In case no one has noticed, there are no other homes on this island. No barns, no cottages, nothing. Only this home is on the island."

"What're you getting at?" Wilby chimed in, looking quite aghast. "You're saying one of us did it, ain't you?"

"I am," Malfoy nodded. "There is nowhere to hide on this island, except in plain sight. The person who has drawn us to this island is clearly not of sound mind, so what better way to enjoy the game he has constructed than to witness it first hand? To experience it with his victims. The killer is one of us, in this room, right now. Perhaps we do not need to learn the identity of the innocent, but learn the identity of the culprit."

"Lady Sinclair," Potter addressed, green eyes fixed on the blonde woman. "When did you reach the bedroom? When I got there, you were already there, quite distressed and hysterical."

"I heard the commotion from my bedroom," Octavia sniffed, brushing loose curls from her face snootily. "I heard whispers and noises, which interrupted my morning tranquillity. I departed my bedroom for the sole purpose of silencing the rude gentlemen in the hallway." – At this, Octavia met the stare of Blaise Zabini, indicating that he was one of the men she spoke of. He raised his tumbler in mock salute. – "When I reached the source of the commotion, however, I realised the cause. Do you mean to suggest that I had a hand in the gruesome scene, Mr Potter, or that I exaggerated my suffering?"

"I am merely asking questions," Potter said. "It's my job, My Lady, given that I am a cop – remember?"

"A poor one at that," Octavia muttered beneath her breath, only Hermione and Pansy hearing the insult.

"A woman could not have done this," Mr Malfoy argued coolly. "Only the men shall be regarded with suspicion."

"I apologise, Mr Malfoy," Hermione piped up, "but do you mean to imply that a woman is less capable of grisly acts than a man, purely due to her gender?"

"I am implying no such thing, Miss Granger." Malfoy replied, meeting her vexed gaze. "I am asserting it explicitly."

"Forgive me if I am incorrect, or speaking out of turn, but I cannot understand your conviction." Hermione disputed. "The telegram specifically detailed that only one innocent is among us. So it stands to reason that at least four of the five women here are guilty of atrocious crimes, if not all. I, of course, am innocent of all accused crimes, but I cannot claim the same for the other women. Therefore, I find your opinion to be rather judgemental and flimsy."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Granger!" Octavia snapped, simply aghast. "Are you accusing me of any one of the three repulsive misconducts?"

"I am not," Hermione bowed her head respectively. "I merely wish to assert that I am not acquainted with the other women to the degree in which I could confidently profess your innocence."

"She did it!" Ginevra shrilled, speaking for the first time since the chaos in the corridor. Everyone snapped their gazes to the nerve-wracked woman, following her extended finger in the direction it pointed to – Pansy Parkinson.

"Excuse me?!" Pansy gasped, eyes nearly bulging out of her skull. "How dare you!"

"She did, I swear it!" Ginevra shrieked, rising suddenly from her chair. "I am acquainted with Lady Parkinson, and do you know the circumstances in which we met?"

"How dare you!" Pansy screeched, tossing her napkin onto her plate as she jumped up from her chair. "My private affairs are of no business to these strangers, Miss Weasley!"

"Secrets are what will get us killed!" Ginevra shouted, her voice shaking with the sheer panic consuming her. "We met in at West Park Lunatic Asylum!"

Silence fell over all occupants of the room, gazes darting between the two standing women. Pansy Parkinson seemed to be on the verge of lunging at Miss Weasley, whilst Miss Weasley appeared ready to faint at any moment from hysteria. Octavia sat perfectly still, fully aware of Pansy's admittance into the asylum three years ago, but unaware of the connection between the two women.

"Miss Weasley," Blaise drawled between puffs to his cigarette. "If you had become acquainted with Lady Parkinson under such circumstances, does that not shadow yourself with doubt also? If both of you were committed to an asylum, it only rouses my suspicions, directed at both yourself and Lady Parkinson."

"What if it's the both of them?" Potter accused, gesturing his tumbler of brandy toward the two standing women. "You could be in cahoots with this whole thing. You are already familiar with each other after meeting in a loony bin. So it stands to reason that you are both suspects."

"I was coping with the loss of a loved one, Mr Potter," Ginevra breathed shakily, her hands trembling at her sides.

"And I was not?" Pansy shrieked, eyes wide as the plates on the table. "I was admitted for psychological treatment due to the deaths of _three_ loved ones in the span of one year! I lost my father – Lord Alexander Parkinson – and my brother, _and_ my betrothed! How dare you, Miss Weasley! I am appalled. Simply appalled!"

Hermione, perceptive as she was, noticed that Mr Potter paled at the mention of Pansy's father's name. The policeman attempted to conceal his crack in composure by swiftly turning his back on the others, filling his tumbler to the brim with brandy.

"Mr Potter," Hermione addressed cautiously, the man's back tensing, but he didn't turn to meet her stare. "Are you alright?"

"Dandy," Potter spat bitterly before gulping down the alcoholic beverage.

"You appear to have recognised the name of Lady Parkinson's father," Hermione commented, all eyes on the room either on her, or Mr Potter. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, sir, but it seems that you –"

"Miss Granger!" Potter snapped, turning around to glower at the woman. "I do not forgive you for speaking out of turn, especially when you seem to be accusing me of something. I do not know what you are referring to, I do not know a Lord Parkinson, and I have no clue as to what you are rambling on about. I must say, hysterical women are considerably unattractive, Miss Granger. Let us hope that you remain in your station from now on, and keep that mouth of yours shut."

"Let us hope that you do not speak to a woman in such a manner again, Mr Potter," Malfoy added, tone dripping with ice. "Lest you lose that sharp tongue of yours."

"Is that a threat?" Potter shouted. "Are you threatening an officer of the law, Mr Malfoy?"

"No," Malfoy smirked, staring directly at Hermione. "That is a promise, Mr Potter."

"Yeah?" Potter bit, slamming his tumbler down on the bar. "What about you then, Mr Malfoy? We all know what you are, but why don't you tell everyone about the mess you found yourself in last year, yes? Since everyone else seems to be up for discussion, why not reveal your own secrets, Mr Malfoy? Or do the rules only apply where you want them to?"

"I am hiding no secrets," Malfoy shrugged, lighting himself another cigarette. "You hold a personal vendetta against me, Mr Potter."

"A personal vendetta?" Hermione repeated suspiciously. "Are you acquainted with one another?"

"Not exactly," Malfoy smirked, smoke billowing from between his pink lips. "Mr Potter is a nuisance at most, determined to see me hang for my crimes. I completed a well-paid assignment last winter by burning a family home to the ground. Everyone died; men, women and children. It is no secret, but Potter couldn't gather enough evidence to convict me."

"Pardon me," Octavia interrupted, Ginevra and Pansy seating themselves slowly now that the attention had been deflected elsewhere. "I admit to finding myself rather confused. Are you acquainted or not, Mr Malfoy?"

"We are not." Malfoy answered coolly. "We are only aware of one another. For years, Mr Potter has built a case against me, but cannot find enough evidence to convict me of anything, for I ensure that I leave nothing behind. One could refer to me as his Moby Dick, perhaps."

"I will see you hang," Potter spat confidently. "You can bet your life on it."

"Again, I am simply baffled," Octavia said. "You both know one another, but this appears to be the first addressing of such familiarity."

"We are not familiar with one another," Malfoy sighed, seemingly growing annoyed with the Lady. "Mr Potter undoubtedly was foolish enough to believe that I was not aware of his pursuit of me. But I have been aware from the very start, and now that it has been mentioned, we are addressing it. There is nothing confusing about the matter, Lady Sinclair."

"Might I interject?" Theodore Nott drawled, Hermione almost forgetting his presence. "It seems that we are concerning ourselves with insignificant business. We have veered away from the primary matter of a killer in our midst. One of us is behind this madness, and I wish to discover who. It matters not how we are all connected, for once we find the culprit, we may take care of him – so to speak – and move on from this blasted island."

"What do you suggest?" Wilby asked, seemingly on board with the direction Nott was going in.

"A search party," Nott answered. "The statement found at the scene of the crime had to have been brought with the killer, no? So it stands to reason that further evidences will remain in said killer's possession. Perhaps more statements, a weapon or two – whatever it may be, I am certain that we will discover who is behind this inconvenience by searching through the belongings of all guests and staff."

"A reasonable suggestion," Blaise nodded, butting out his cigarette in the full ashtray. "We will all go together."

"What if the killer has said possessions with them right now?" Hermione asked.

"We will all strip down to nothing but towels, and for the women – nightwear." Malfoy ordered. "It is required, so I apologise to the ladies, but dire circumstances require extreme measures."

"When shall we perform such a raid?" Pansy inquired.

"There is time like the present." Blaise smirked, rising from his chair. "Let's begin."

* * *

*.*.*.*.*

* * *

Hermione stood by the door, her back pressed against the wall as she clutched her nightgown to her body. The shame of standing in such improper attire was clear from the blush on her cheeks, livid brown eyes screaming with humiliation. Not only was she clad in her nightwear in front of six strange men, two of those men were rummaging through her belongings without consideration.

Ronald Wilby and Harry Potter stood at opposite ends of the bed, tearing apart the contents of her opened suitcase unashamedly, her negligée, shoes, feminine products and meagre monies there for everyone to see. The women stood outside in the hallway, Pansy and Ginevra clad in nightwear as they had been first in the raid. Malfoy stood in the doorframe, observing the scene intently, ensuring that nothing was missed, whilst Blaise lounged on the window seat, smoking his countless cigarette of the day.

Shame burned at her honey brown eyes, tears welling up noticeably as a sanitary apron was tossed to the floor. Hermione inhaled sharply, her gaze burning into the menstruation product, bottom lip quivering as her face flamed up in the fiercest blush she had ever experienced.

Malfoy remained at the door, hands in his pockets, silver eyes regarding the feminine product without judgement or embarrassment. However, a side-glance to the nearly-crying Hermione caused a spark of concern to ignite in his cool silver eyes. Pushing himself from the doorway, Malfoy stepped forward and lifted the item from the floor, Hermione bowing her head in further shame.

"Enough," Malfoy declared coldly, Wilby and Potter stopping at once. The pair turned their attentions to the self-appointed dictator, both looking rather put-out.

"We have to check everything," said Potter through gritted teeth. "Pardon me, Mr Malfoy, but I am a police officer and know what I'm doing."

"You are upsetting Miss Granger," Malfoy retorted coolly, silver eyes hardening. "If you are incapable of exercising discretion during your search, then we have no choice but to assign another to the task."

Potter's upper lip curled as he glowered scathingly at Mr Malfoy, the two in a sort of stand-off. Mr Zabini remained stoic as ever on the window seat, continuing to smoke his cigarette, flicking the ash onto the floor, observing the scene intently. After a few impossibly uncomfortable moments passed, Potter threw a handful of clothing into the suitcase before he stormed out of the room. Wilby followed his new-comrade out into the hallway, joining the others as they waited for the task to be completed.

"Would you mind?" Mr Malfoy addressed his friend, the tanned man inclining his head once to accept the request.

Mr Zabini pushed himself from the window seat, cigarette hanging from his mouth as he approached the suitcase, setting to completing the search with much more discretion than Potter and Wilby.

"Thank you, sir," Hermione whispered, clutching the nightgown tightly to her body.

Mr Malfoy turned to face her, hands in his pockets, silver eyes connecting with her gaze.

"Are you alright?" Mr Malfoy asked, stepping toward her.

"I am a little shaken, sir," Hermione nodded admittedly. "But grateful for your assistance and chivalry. It is most appreciated."

Mr Malfoy nodded his head once in acceptance of her gratitude as Mr Zabini moved on to search the nightstand. The search of Hermione's belongings and bedroom lasted a further ten minutes before Mr Zabini declared that he was satisfied and had found nothing worthy of suspicion.

The three of them departed the bedroom, joining the others in the hallway. Lady Octavia Sinclair appeared palpably outraged, for her bedroom was next. Mrs Longbottom and Lady Parkinson accompanied her into the bedroom for a few moments, required to ensure that the Lady did not hide any weapons or belongings whilst changing into her nightwear. When the bedroom door opened to reveal Lady Sinclair in a lacy, silk nightslip and flowing satin dressing-gown, the next search prepared to begin.

Before Potter and Wilby could enter the bedroom, however, Lady Sinclair stopped in the doorway, hand held up to prevent them from going any further.

"No man will touch or lay eyes on my belongings," Octavia demanded prissily, stray curls framing her exceptionally pretty, yet stony features. "It would be improper for a man to see my negligee out of wedlock, so I must insist."

"Like it hasn't happened before," Mr Potter muttered under his breath, Hermione's brows raising at the sheer audacity of his poor mannerisms. Before she could speak on it, however, Lady Sinclair stepped toward the policeman confidently, her hand belting across his face with brutal force.

"You forget yourself, Mr Potter," Octavia drawled coldly, her upturned nose raising in the air as she sniffed snootily. "Do not be foolish enough to think that our extreme circumstances will permit your insolence. I am a wealthy and powerful woman, Mr Potter. When we leave this island, I will ensure that you are reminded of that fact."

"Is that a threat?" Potter spat, closing the distance between them, his body towering over Octavia's petite frame.

"Indeed it is, Mr Potter," Octavia hissed, head tilted to align her face with his, demonstrating no signs of weakness.

A tanned hand firmly gripped onto Potter's shoulder, thereby interrupting the confrontation as Mr Zabini pulled Potter away from Lady Sinclair.

"Perhaps you will allow me, Lady Sinclair?" Zabini asked between puffs at his cigarette. "I, too, must insist that one of the men are present for the searches. You are not being singled out, My Lady, for we are all to be searched thoroughly."

"If you insist," Octavia sighed wearily, vexation glistening in her big hazel eyes.

The European man smirked wickedly at Lady Sinclair, displaying entirely improper behaviour as he winked at her. The Lady merely pretended to have not seen the gesture, however, and stepped to the side to allow him passage.

Mr Zabini strolled by her into the bedroom, Mr Malfoy and Mr Wilby at his heels. Octavia held her head high as she turned and followed the men, supervising their search, ensuring that neither of them touched her intimate attire for a second longer than needed.

Narrowed hazel eyes darted between all three men as they separated, Zabini taking the suitcase on the bed, Wilby disappearing into the ensuite, and Malfoy riffling through the dressers and bedside tables. Despite her confidently furious expression, Octavia's cheeks flushed crimson as Blaise peeled out several undergarments from her suitcase, his lips twisted into a smirk at the clothing. But he didn't inspect the attire for longer than a second, tossing them to the side before continuing to search through her possessions. Octavia couldn't help but suspect that he had ulterior motives for rummaging through her suitcase. In fact, she was absolutely certain that he merely wished to catch a glimpse and feel of her expensive negligée. She would be correct.

Wilby came out of the bathroom after a few minutes, carrying a bundle of her possessions against his chest. Octavia gasped as she noticed a pair of dirty stockings, holsters, and underwear in the clutter of belongings, mortification burning at her red face.

Without care, Wilby approached the bed and dropped the mass of items onto the mattress beside the suitcase, shamelessly riffling through her dirty laundry.

"Sir!" Octavia gasped, stepping toward the two men at the bed. "Sir, will you please exercise tact? Those are my intimate possessions, and I do not appreciate your indiscretion"

"Mr Wilby," Blaise addressed coolly, "I have to agree with Lady Sinclair. Those are not items that should be boldly displayed to all witnesses."

"Listen 'ere," Wilby snapped, addressing both Blaise and Octavia. "Just 'cause you have the fancies for some uppity lass, doesn't mean I have to listen to your rubbish. I'm making fast work of a job 'ere, and ain't worried about upsetting some rich girl, alright?"

Octavia blushed deeply at the claim that Mr Zabini harboured less than platonic sentiments for her, but cleared her throat and attempted to remain poised. Mr Zabini made no effort to contradict Wilby, however employed an expression so dangerous that even Octavia stepped backwards a little.

"You will listen to whatever I have to say, Mr Wilby," Zabini stated icily. "My expertise in our current circumstances extend further than you could possibly imagine. Therefore, my instructions will be heard, and my advice will be taken. Remove your hands from Lady Sinclair's intimates and wait in the corridor."

Mr Wilby actually humphed like a huffy toddler before he followed the directions, turning and storming out of the bedroom to wait with the others. Octavia sniffed importantly as he departed, avoiding Mr Zabini's gaze and, instead, returning to her prior place by the wall.

The search lasted only a few more minutes before Mr Malfoy declared that it was 'all clear', and departed the bedroom to continue the search. But Mr Zabini stayed behind, lighting himself another cigarette as Octavia approached the bed, looking rather miserable. Her possessions were scattered across the mattress and floor carelessly, dirty laundry piled in with clean garments.

Sighing heavily, Octavia pulled the suitcase from the bed, watching as it fell onto the floor with a soft _thud_. Dropping to her knees in front of it, Octavia set to folding her clean garments neatly, placing them into her suitcase, whilst separating the dirty pieces of clothing. Octavia was acutely aware of Mr Zabini's black eyes fixed intently on the side of her face, but pretended not to notice as she continued her weary task. The smoke from his cigarette bothered her immensely, potentially causing her expensive garments to absorb the stench. It was most inconvenient.

"Mr Zabini," Octavia drawled, straightening out an evening gown. "Will you please smoke that putrid thing elsewhere? I grow weary of the stench in my boudoir."

Blaise grinned immediately, flashing his pearly white teeth at her, pointedly taking a deep inhale of the cigarette as their gazes met. Puckering her plump lips in disapproval, Octavia narrowed her eyes at him, watching as he continued to grin and push himself from the wall.

Narrowed hazel eyes fixed on the tanned gentleman as he walked around the bed, approaching her, moving like a predator. But that is precisely what he was, was it not?

Mr Zabini dropped to one knee on the other side of the suitcase, exhaling a great big puff of smoke in her direction as his grin remained plastered onto his handsome face. Octavia coughed and sputtered as she waved her hand in front of her face, fanning away the grey wisps that dare assault her.

"Mr Zabini, do you make a habit of being the despicable man you are?" Octavia hissed, clearing away the fog of smoke surrounding her.

As her vision cleared, her brows shot up in surprise, watching in shock as Mr Zabini fingered a few silk pieces of negligée in her suitcase. Suddenly, her hand shot out and slapped him fiercely across the cheek, his humour not fading in the slightest. Blaise merely clicked his jaw, black eyes gazing at her from beneath his lashes, a wicked smirk smeared across his face.

"I do," Mr Zabini purred seductively, amusement glistening in his dark eyes. "And yourself, Lady Sinclair? Do you make a habit of pretending to be an innocent woman when you are anything but?"

"How dare you!" Octavia gasped. "You know nothing about me, sir."

"I see you," Mr Zabini whispered, his tone suddenly low and severe. "I can sense people's true natures, and yours isn't what it seems, _Octavia_."

"Nothing is what it seems here," Octavia countered, hazel eyes alight with outrage at his sheer nerve. "And you will address me accordingly, Mr Zabini."

Before Mr Zabini could even part his lips to issue a response, a terrible scream ripped through the château, piercing through the walls, sending panic in waves of distress.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

Blood curling screams ricocheted through the château, reaching the frozen Octavia and Mr Zabini. A mere second of shock passed before they both kicked into action, jumping to their feet, Octavia far more distressed than the suddenly stoic Mr Zabini.

"Wait here." Mr Zabini ordered firmly.

"I will not," Octavia argued, the fear evident in her breathy voice.

"Yes, you will," Zabini growled, rounding on her as the screams subsided. "You will stay right here and lock the door."

"No!" Octavia shrieked, hands clenching at her sides. "I will not stay here by myself, sir!"

Shouts echoed down the corridor, reaching the squabbling pair in the bedroom. Blaise Zabini threw his head back in a bid for patience before he groaned in extreme annoyance. Suddenly, he grabbed her arm as she gasped, yanking her closer to him, wide hazel eyes gazing up at his dark orbs.

"Whatever happens, you will not leave my side, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini demanded, giving her not a moment to respond.

Bare feet scurried against the carpeted floor as he towed her along with him out of the bedroom, into the corridor. No others could be seen in the long hallway, but an orange glow of light poured out of a bedroom two doors up. Dragging the Lady behind him, Blaise marched down the corridor toward the room, whilst ensuring that his body shielded that of the Lady's.

Swift paces up the corridor closed the distance in a matter of seconds, the pair arriving at the frantic scene inside Mr Nott's bedroom. Mr Malfoy reclined casually against the wall, holding a revolver loosely in his left hand, his other hand stuffed in his trouser pocket. Upon reaching the scene, Mr Zabini released Octavia's arm, relaxing visibly.

"Glad you could join us," Malfoy smirked, silver eyes flickering between Octavia and Blaise.

Octavia frowned curiously as she stepped around Mr Zabini, entering the bedroom cautiously. Hermione stood against the wall closest to the door, wide eyes fixed on the gun in Malfoy's hand, Pansy and Ginevra joining her, looking equally as frightened. Potter and Wilby poured over a photograph that they each clasped in their hands, the latter featuring a sickly pale glow. The Longbottoms, however, were in the process of backing away from an outraged Theodore Nott.

"It isn't mine!" Mr Nott shouted, wagging his finger at the photograph. "Someone has slipped it into my belongings, I tell you!"

"Mr Nott here had the most graphic photograph in his luggage," Malfoy said, informing Blaise of what he had missed. "So graphic, in fact, that I felt it necessary to reveal my revolver."

"Why on God's green earth you would have a gun to begin with is incomprehensible, Mr Malfoy!" Hermione shouted shrilly, evidently shaken by the sight of the weapon.

Ignoring Hermione's hysterics altogether, Mr Malfoy strode toward Potter, taking the photograph from the man before handing it to the approaching Mr Zabini. The tanned gentleman took one look at the photograph before nodding once in approval of Malfoy's decision. He turned to face a distressed Mr Nott as he folded the photograph, tucking it away safely into his trouser pocket.

"Who is the woman in the photograph?" Mr Zabini asked coolly, black eyes assessing the man, calculating and analysing.

"My wife," Nott gritted out through clenched teeth. "A whore of a woman who paid for her infidelities."

"By your hand, no less," Zabini accused calmly.

"I regained my honour," Nott declared, no sign of shame or regret on his features.

"What does the photograph show?" Octavia asked timidly, stepping toward Mr Zabini.

"Nothing for a lady to see," Zabini clipped, dark eyes on Nott.

"I did ask to see it," Octavia argued. "But I demand to know what it shows, sir."

"A dead body," Pansy whispered, wide glossy eyes shining with horror and trauma. "Dismembered … _butchered_."

Octavia's already pale complexion lightened even further, her rosy lips parting as she gaped at Mr Nott. The man displayed no hint of sorrow, only rage and injustice.

"Did … Did you do that to your wife, Mr Nott?" Octavia breathed, unable to comprehend the situation to its full degree. "Did you _butcher_ your wife, sir?"

"I did," Nott grumbled, nodding his head once. "There we have it – I am one of the eight."

"You took pictures?" Octavia muttered, horror etched onto her pretty features.

"Of course I didn't," Nott bit sharply. "It's a bloody crime scene photograph, isn't it? One that I didn't bring with me. So someone acquired that photograph and put it into my suitcase. Someone in this very room. Let's ask ourselves: Who among us would have access to photographs of crime scenes?"

All gazes darted in the direction of Mr Potter, the man gaping stupidly, his spectacles a little skewed on the bridge of his nose.

"Now hang on a bloody minute!" Potter blurted out. "I've got nothing to do with that, and I didn't butcher a soul! And I sure as hell don't have a gun with me, so look for answers elsewhere!"

"Why _do_ you have a gun, Mr Malfoy?" Octavia drawled, eyes narrowing in on the pale, blond man.

"I'm in the business of cleaning up messes, and my messes consist of making one before I have to clean it up, ma'am," Mr Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly. "The very same reason that Mr Zabini has a gun in his jacket pocket as we speak."

"It was implied by Mr Filch that we would require the revolvers," Zabini explained, completely unashamed. "No reason was given as to why, and we care not to ask questions."

Octavia averted her eyes as he dared to look in her direction, the blonde lady taking a few steps away from the self-confessed killer. The thought of two of the trapped guests on the island possessing guns, given their circumstances, was either a comforting thought, or a frightening one. All of the women appeared to think the latter, for horror and unease shone in each of their eyes.

"I have had enough of this nonsense!" Mr Nott declared, marching toward his suitcase. Everyone watched as he set to gathering his belongings and stuffing them into his luggage without care. "I will find a way off this island, and believe me, I will not return for any of you!"

"There is no way off the island, sir," said Hermione. "It is isolated, there are no other buildings, no boats and no roads. How do you expect to leave?"

"Like I said, Miss Granger," Nott gruffed, slamming his suitcase shut. "I will find a way."

No one tried to stop him as he hauled his suitcase off the bed, slammed his hat atop his head, and strode out of the room with an expression of utter determination. Truth be told, most occupants of the bedroom seemed to be grateful for his departure. It was far better than enduring the company of a butchering maniac.

But that was just it. Many more of them were killers, and how gruesome those murders were, were yet to be known.

* * *

*.*.*.*.*

* * *

The roaring flames in the fireplace produced a strong orange glow to the dining room, illuminating the anxious expressions of all occupants. The two servants stood by the wall, waiting patiently for the others to arrive so they could serve dinner. But in truth, it didn't seem that anyone was hungry. Most appetites had been devoured by the grisliness of their circumstances.

Mr Malfoy, Mr Zabini and Mr Potter had departed the home of the mysteriously absent hosts, in order to pursue Mr Nott on the island. They had left an hour ago, which, in Hermione's opinion, was far too long. The island was relatively small in width and length, offering no crooks and crannies to conceal one's self in. So a search party that was performed by three men of particular skills taking longer than twenty minutes was certainly cause for worry.

Wilby stood by the bar – his new sanctuary, it seemed – helping himself to another hefty serving of brandy. The other men had left him in charge of the ladies, so to speak, but Hermione suspected that she, herself, was far more competent than the alcoholic. Alas, her opinions mattered nought. As a working-class woman, they never did possess much value. Lady Sinclair and Lady Parkinson, on the other hand, were listened to when they spoke.

Titles did astounding things for those who possessed them in the early twentieth century. But still, the ladies were women, and that hindered their degree of input in such dire circumstances. Receptions and conversations of respect toward the two women were evidently beginning to shatter, particularly in regards to the drunk by the bar, and the police officer hunting for Mr Nott.

Conversely, Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini appeared to maintain their ideas of chivalry, perhaps bordering on sexism. A discrimination that was quite prevalent in all societies across Britain in that time.

Suddenly, the door to the dining room creaked open, revealing the three gentlemen who had searched the island for the disappeared guest. All three of them were drenched, head-to-toe, their soaked attire speaking of the brewing storm outside. The expression of Mr Potter also advised the occupants of the dining room of their lack of success in locating Mr Nott.

Deflating visibly, Pansy heaved a weary sigh, waving her hand to the servants, silently ordering that they serve dinner. The married house-servants bowed their heads before they left the room, leaving the guests to speak among themselves.

"Not a trace of him," Mr Malfoy declared, peeling off his drenched tail-coat. "We separated and searched the whole island twice to be sure."

Mr Zabini followed suit, removing his wet jacket and tossing it onto a buffet table, knocking over an ornament in the process. He didn't care. He only set to running his fingers through his saturated hair, his white shirt now transparent, clinging to his tanned muscular chest.

Black eyes watched as Lady Sinclair blushed slightly at the sight, her hazel gaze raking over the defined muscles visible through the translucent shirt. But she was not alone in her indecency, for Hermione appeared to be performing the same observation on Mr Malfoy as he rolled up the sleeves of his sodden shirt.

The two women appeared to be in a trance of sorts, having never – admittedly – seen a man's chest in such a fashion, and it was certainly a sight to behold. Mr Malfoy smirked at Hermione as he seated himself at the dining table, her gaze darting up to meet his penetrative silver eyes. Suddenly, mortification washed over her features, the brunette averting her stare to the table instead.

Mr Zabini lit himself a cigarette, Octavia's eyes coaxed into staring at his lips. As he took the cigarette from his damp lips, she watched his tongue dart out and remove the droplets of rain from the plump skin, her cheeks rosier than ever before.

The doors to the dining room opened, thankfully hauling Octavia from her inappropriate daze, her attention wrenched to the arriving servants.

"Enjoy the view, Lady Sinclair?" Blaise grinned, seating himself arrogantly across from the blushing woman.

"I was merely wondering as to why you decided against an undershirt, Mr Zabini," Octavia whispered, absolutely mortified.

The Longbottoms served out dinner for the seated guests, Mr Potter and Mr Wilby remaining by the bar, opting to indulge in liquor instead.

"Does it displease you?" Blaise teased rudely, reclining in his chair as he smoked his cigarette.

"As a matter of fact, it does," Octavia sniffed, attempting to regain some poise. "It is quite offensive."

"Well, I must apologise," Blaise laughed, his words insincere. "As there is only one maid on staff, I cannot expect that my laundry is prepared by morning, can I?"

"I suppose not," Octavia drawled, fully composed once more.

"May we please address more pressing matters?" Pansy droned, waving her hand dismissively as the maid placed a bowl of soup in front of her. "Thank you, Mrs Longbottom, you may wait for further instruction."

The maid bowed her head and took her place by the wall, her husband joining her a few moments after once all seated guests had their meals. Soup appeared to be the only dish on the menu that night, accompanied by freshly baked bread that was still warm and soft to the touch, and uncorked bottles of wine in the centre of the table.

"Now," Pansy cleared her throat importantly. "I do not believe I am alone in suspecting Mr Nott as the culprit of our dire situation."

No one spoke, waiting for the lady to elaborate on her theory.

"Mr Nott was the very person to suggest the search party – which, in turn, piqued our suspicions when he was found to be in possession of a gruesome photograph." Pansy explained in an aristocratic drawl. "Then he suddenly vanishes on an isolated island with nowhere to run or hide? It seems to me that he has faked his own disappearance, incriminated himself to further fool us, and is the maniac behind all this nonsense."

Hermione pursed her lips concentration, following the logic that Lady Parkinson relayed. Mr Malfoy rose from his chair and took the bottle of wine from the table, presumptuously filling Hermione's wineglass before his own.

In truth, it was a servant's duty that he had performed, but Hermione allowed it. With the low staff and high stress, those customs seemed to matter less to Hermione and the others. But not to the two actual aristocrats among them, apparently.

Pansy clicked her fingers, summoning the butler over to perform the duty of filling her wineglass with the dry beverage. It would be considered unseemly for the Lady's wineglasses to be filled by someone other than a servant. Hermione believed it to be outright ridiculous that they held onto such customs in times like these. Then again, they weren't necessarily customs to the ladies, were they? They were ways of life, drummed into them from birth, and perhaps offered a sliver of familiarity and comfort in these dreadful circumstances.

Just as Hermione began to shift her train of thought to the customs, she picked up her dinner spoon and scooped out the broth from the bowl. Before she could raise the spoon to her parted lips, she froze in horror, eyes wide, staring madly at the contents in the spoon.

Suddenly, a horrid, wretched, shrill scream tore through her throat, Hermione throwing the spoon back into the bowl as she scrambled out of her seat. Not a second after, Ginevra began to shriek wildly, falling over her chair as she tried to escape her broth.

Octavia, having no idea as to the cause for such dramatics, leaned to the side and peered into Hermione's broth.

"What is the matter?" Mr Malfoy asked without concern, eyeing a harshly breathing Hermione curiously.

"There's an eyeball in my soup!" Hermione shrieked, pointing at the bowl of broth as Octavia quickly scooted away from it.

"There's an eyeball in mine too!" Ginevra screeched, hand on her rapidly beating heart.

Mr Malfoy rose from his chair, striding around the lengthy dining table toward Hermione. As he did so, Mr Zabini leaned over the table and inspected Octavia's soup, stirring it with his own spoon, searching for any body parts. He found none; only lentils, cabbage, ham and potatoes.

Reaching Hermione, Mr Malfoy examined her soup, quickly spooning out the piece of anatomy, his expression perfectly stoic as he inspected it. The moment that the eyeball was raised to everyone's eyesight, everyone seemed to have lost their appetites even further, if possible. Octavia went a sickly shade of green, seemingly on the verge of vomiting as she shakily stood from her chair. Tears welled up in her wide hazel eyes as she stared horridly at the eyeball, backing away from the dining table slowly.

"Mrs Longbottom," Mr Malfoy addressed, turning to face the frighteningly pale woman. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Mr Malfoy, I beg of you, I did not …" Mrs Longbottom mumbled, horror etched on her features. "I was not aware of that …. I didn't …"

"It was Mr Nott," Pansy breathed, her voice trembling along with her hands. "It had to have been Mr Nott … He is toying with us."

Mr Zabini strode around the table to meet Octavia, who looked as though she would faint at any given moment. The moment he reached her, Blaise guided her away from the table, seating her carefully in a seat against the wall before he marched over to the bar. Mr Malfoy performed the same action with Hermione, seating her beside Octavia on the plush chair, crouching down in front of her.

"Miss Granger, will you please look at me?" Mr Malfoy requested, his tone suggesting that it was an order.

The shocked woman swallowed thickly as she met his silvery eyes, panic radiating from her pores.

"There is no need to concern yourself," Mr Malfoy assured, lying flawlessly. "It is merely a pig's eye; do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr Malfoy," Hermione breathed, voice shivering and quivering. "Yes, you must be right. I am merely shocked, forgive me."

"It is expected," Mr Malfoy nodded once. "Take a moment to calm your nerves."

Hermione inclined her head in agreement, as pale as the white walls, as shaky as a leaf in the wintery billowing winds outside. Mr Zabini reached the clutter of people by the wall, carrying a crystal tumbler of brandy with him, extending said glass to Octavia.

"Sir?" Octavia whispered, her gaze darting between the ludicrous liquor and the gentleman.

"It will calm you," Mr Zabini said crisply, leaving no room for argument.

"Brandy is not a beverage for a lady, Mr Zabini," Octavia mumbled, shaking her head, but her gaze remained on the tumbler.

"Under normal circumstances, you would be correct," Mr Zabini coaxed. "As these are no normal circumstances, however, I must insist."

"Take the drink," Wilby slurred from the bar, completely unfazed by the drama around him. "Hysterical women are a nuisance, so if it shuts you up, I'm in full support."

Mr Zabini's black eyes darkened considerably, swarming with danger as he kept Octavia's stare. A frown of hurt creased at her brow at Wilby's sharpness, but she shakily took the tumbler and sipped at the liquid meekly. Before she could swallow the mouthful, Mr Zabini turned and stormed over to the bar, fists clenched at his sides.

Gasps and shrieks resounded through the room as Mr Zabini punched Mr Wilby brutally, the sheer force causing the man to fly through the air before crumbling on the ground harshly.

"I have warned you repeatedly, Mr Wilby," Blaise spat, blood coating his knuckles. "Yet you appear to have the shortest memory of any man I have ever known. Speak to any woman in that manner again, and I assure you, far more severe punishments will befall you, sir."

The drunken red-head groaned loudly at the blinding pain of his injury, blood seeping from a crack at his right temple. The crimson liquid quickly coated the side of his face as he clumsily climbed to his feet, swaying on the spot, clearly disorientated.

Hermione had to admit that she was astoundingly surprised. Not at the assault, for that had been brewing for some time, but at the mere fact that Mr Wilby was not rendered unconscious. However, Mr Malfoy quickly regained her attention by clicking his fingers in front of her face.

"Pay it no mind," Mr Malfoy advised, a glint of concern in his hard silver eyes. "It will only upset you further."

"Right!" Mr Potter declared from the bar, slurring his words considerably. "Let's move on to the parlour room, shall we?"

* * *

*.*.*.*.*

* * *

The air was thick with tension in the parlour room, Wilby sitting moodily on an armchair as he held a damp cloth to his injury. He sat alone, however, for Mr Potter had seemingly attached himself to the bar against the wall, offering no sympathies. It wasn't because he cared naught for the assaulted man, but that he cared only for himself.

Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini sat at the felted green table by the window, enjoying a relaxed game of poker, the awkward atmosphere not affecting them in the slightest. Pansy and Ginevra whispered in the corner, apparently enduring a somewhat heated conversation that piqued the curiosity of both Hermione and Octavia.

The two curly-haired women stood by the far wall, huddled close together for reasons unknown to the both of them. Hermione and Octavia had absolutely nothing in common, but had linked up somewhere between the present and their arrival into the parlour room. Perhaps it was due to the fact that everyone else seemed to be occupied? It wasn't clear.

The Longbottoms entered the parlour, both carrying trays of biscuits, cheeses, teas and sandwiches, silently placing them on the serving table in the centre of the candle-lit room.

"Supper is served, ladies and gentlemen," Longbottom announced.

Octavia released a shrill, mocking laugh as she regarded the spread of food with distaste and suspicion. This caught the attention of Mr Zabini instantly, the tanned man rising from his chair and approaching the servants.

"You first." Mr Zabini demanded, cold black eyes moving between the married couple. "Mr Longbottom will eat a sandwich, and Mrs Longbottom will drink the tea."

"Yes, Mr Zabini," Mr Longbottom bowed, gesturing for his wife to follow the order.

Octavia watched curiously from the wall, suspicious hazel eyes observing the servants as they each adhered to the commands of Mr Zabini. After they had each swallowed and opened their mouths to demonstrate, Octavia nodded once and approached the table.

Meeting Zabini's gaze, Octavia allowed a small smile of gratitude to twist at her lips as she lifted a biscuit from the platter. Hermione was close behind her, helping herself to the perfectly cut squares of sandwiches, evidently famished. Mr Zabini inclined his head once at Octavia, the pair allowing their shared gazes to linger for a moment before he returned to the poker table.

Octavia watched him stroll away, his shirt still damp, therefore displaying his muscular, yet slightly scarred back. As she nibbled on the end of her custard biscuit, Octavia observed the hitman interestedly, a sparkle in her hazel eyes speaking of improper feelings. Not emotional sentiments, but physical feelings of reaction. The indecent sort.

Confidently, the blonde raised her chin in the air as she tossed the barely-touched biscuit onto the tray and tottered over to the poker table. Hermione frowned curiously as she watched lady approach the men at the table before mentally shrugging and following suit.

"May we join you?" Octavia asked as she reached the table, but seated herself across from Mr Zabini before receiving a response.

"You may," Blaise grinned, amused by her presumptuousness. "You play poker?"

"Not by habit, Mr Zabini, but I am familiar with the parlour game." Octavia drawled, allowing Mr Malfoy to pour her a tumbler of brandy. He quickly poured another for Hermione as she sat herself across from him, a light rosy tinge to her cheeks.

"Well then," Blaise grinned, black eyes fixed on the snooty lady. "Oxford stud poker is the game, Octavia."

"Lady Sinclair," Octavia corrected sternly. "I grow weary of your remarks, Mr Zabini."

"What a shame," Blaise laughed lightly, dealing out the cards accordingly. "I have yet to grow weary of your snobbery."

Lady Sinclair rolled her eyes in an unladylike fashion, her prior consumed tumbler of brandy seemingly having an effect on her mannerisms already. Hermione allowed a small smile to grace her lips, finding herself to be considerably amused by the Lady, but spoke nothing of it. Instead, she gripped her fingers around the brandy offered by Malfoy and drank confidently from the tumbler.

"I simply must inquire," Octavia began, picking up her cards discreetly. "Are you acquainted with one another?"

Hermione quickly realised that she was referring to herself and Mr Malfoy, her hazel eyes shifting between the two curiously.

"We are not," Hermione clipped, a tinge of hardness to her honey brown eyes.

"Yet." Mr Malfoy added with a smirk. "I hope we become well acquainted after our shared experience here."

"Oh," Octavia raised her brows, a smile tugging at her lips. "How scandalous, sir."

"If I am mistaken, please correct me," Mr Zabini interjected with a grin. "I do believe that if Mr Malfoy were to say such a thing only yesterday, you would have gasped and sputtered in offense, Lady Sinclair. Isn't it fascinating how things change in the span of a day?"

"A day," Hermione repeated, rather breathlessly. "It feels as though we have been stranded on this island for a year. It is difficult to comprehend that the duration of our stay has only been twenty-four hours, is it not?"

"Yes," Mr Malfoy smirked. "Only twenty-four hours ago, I had the privilege of first laying eyes on you, Miss Granger."

The implication didn't go unnoticed to Hermione. It was very clear that Mr Malfoy was referring to the sight of her thigh. It suddenly reminded her that he was, in fact, a scoundrel and a pervert.

"A privilege that I can ensure you will never present itself again, Mr Malfoy." Hermione responded, tossing two cards into the pile before picking up two new ones.

Blaise kept his gaze fixed on Octavia, watching as her eyes lit up at the hostility between Mr Malfoy and Hermione. The thirst for gossip was evident in the sparkling hazel eyes of the snob, and the smirk twisting at her plump pink lips only further supported Blaise's perceptions of her true inner nature.

"I apologise," Mr Malfoy sighed, revealing his own cards. A poor hand that lost him the game. "But I cannot resist when legs as devilishly alluring as yours are revealed to me."

Octavia gasped, wide eyes fixing on a blushing Hermione as more information was revealed to her gossip-hungry ears.

"Your legs, Miss Granger?" Octavia breathed, on the verge of squealing in delight. "How indecent of you."

Mr Zabini smirked, enjoying the effect that the brandy was having on the snob.

"It was hardly intentional, Lady Sinclair," Hermione said. "A mere fault with the hem of my dress when I seated myself, is all. Mr Malfoy here, thought it appropriate to gander at my thigh and stockings. It was most offensive."

"Well," Octavia smirked, sniffing snootily. "I cannot claim to have ever experienced a wardrobe malfunction of a similar variety. But that is merely my input, so pay me no mind."

"Thank you, Lady Sinclair," Hermione gritted out, bristled at the implication of the accident being anything but. "And Mr Malfoy, might I counter that I truly believe you have never felt regret a day in your life? So spare me the empty apologies."

"Clever girl," Malfoy grinned, bringing the rim of his tumbler to his pink lips.

Playing on Octavia's lowered defences and thirst for gossip, Mr Zabini revealed his winning hand of cards before refilling her tumbler of brandy.

"Lady Sinclair, may I ask, how is it that you are familiar with Lady Parkinson?" Zabini probed, the Lady taking the filled glass without hesitance.

"Our families are connected through friendship and wealth," Octavia shrugged gracefully. "Lady Parkinson was betrothed to my elder brother, due to the closeness of our two families."

"Was?" Hermione repeated, her brows furrowed as she sipped at her brandy. "Lady Parkinson mentioned earlier that the reason for her admittance to the asylum was due to several deaths. One of them was her betrothed, she claimed."

"She is correct," Octavia nodded, eyes darkening slightly. "Oscar, my brother, and Pansy were arranged to marry from their earlier years as children. Unfortunately, he met with an accident – he drowned, you see – and shortly after, Pansy's father passed. Her own brother, overcome with sorrow and grief, quickly followed them to the afterlife. It was a trying year for all, but I am glad to assert that Lady Parkinson has come out stronger than ever."

"When did this occur?" Mr Zabini pressed nonchalantly, lighting himself a cigarette.

"Three years ago," Octavia sighed, hazel eyes filled with increasing intoxication. "Lady Parkinson was only released from the asylum last summer. They had to be certain that she was prepared to re-enter the demanding expectations of our society. You would not understand, of course, but to exist within aristocracy takes resilience, strength and a sound mind."

"Is that the reason for her unwed status?" Hermione asked, bordering on improper, but the brandy loosened her tongue considerably.

"It is," Octavia nodded. "As for my own unmarried status, I had only entered society as a debutante last summer with Pansy, as I had experienced difficulty myself in coping with the loss of my brother. We were quite close, you see. And once all the gentlemen of our society had learned of my promotion to heiress status … Well, it was an upsetting time, full of badgering and harassment, so I ensured that I was untouchable until I had come to terms with my grief."

"An heiress?" Blaise quirked his brow, reclining in his chair as he puffed at his cigarette. "There are no male relatives that the estate should be passed onto?"

"My brother was the last male in our line," Octavia said sadly. "Unfortunately, it has to be left to myself to inherit. Once I marry, of course. My father stipulated that the fortune should transfer to my husband, due to the legalities of the matter, but in essence, it will be shifted to me."

"I wonder," Hermione began. "You claim that is 'unfortunate', and while the circumstances surrounding the inheritance are unfortunate, I harbour doubts as to the fortune itself."

"The fortune is nothing to me," Octavia smiled sadly. "I would give it all up to have my brother back on God's earth. And with the inheritance, as I mentioned, comes greedy men demanding their opportunity to court me. It is all very tiresome."

"I'll bet," Blaise smirked, black eyes penetrating Octavia's dazed hazel orbs.

Before Octavia could inquire as to his blatant implications, the door burst open, Mrs Longbottom rushing in, looking sick to her stomach.

"Come quickly!" Mrs Longbottom rasped, evidently out of breath. "Come! To the kitchens!"

Every stood – or in some cases, sat – frozen in place for a moment before the sound of chairs scraping against the floor and glasses being slammed down resounded through the room. Panic shifted in the atmosphere as all occupants raced through the door, following the hastened maid through the corridors of the home. Heels clacked rapidly against the floors, the men barging passed the ladies, taking the lead, protecting them from whatever they neared.

After a few minutes of racing through the château, using the servant staircases and corridors, the group reached the kitchens, finding Mr Longbottom puking into a bucket.

"In there!" Mrs Longbottom cried, pointing shakily at the meat locker.

Everyone rushed toward the ajar door to the meat storage room, Mr Malfoy pushing the door open fully to reveal the gruesome scene inside. Hermione and Octavia stumbled forward slightly, evidently intoxicated, but eager to learn the cause of the drama. It was a bad idea.

The moment that each woman laid their eyes on the horror inside, Octavia stifled the first sob of a blubbering fit, while Hermione staggered back, hands clasped over her mouth, preventing bile from escaping her.

Dismembered limbs scattered the floor of the meat locker, spelling one awful word: 'Murderer'. And those limbs had belonged to Theodore Nott, if the severed head was any indication.

Unable to withstand the nausea, Hermione ran over to the sink, gripped onto the metal edges tightly and expelled the meagre amounts of food she had consumed that day. With each heave and jerk of her body, wretched noises crept up her throat, splashes of bile and vomit splattering on the metal basin. Through the horrid noises she was making, Hermione could hear Octavia suddenly breaking down in a fit of sobs, her hitched breaths, sputters and whimpers echoing around the kitchen.

A hand came out of nowhere and softly gathered Hermione's stray curls, scooping them back to the nape of her neck. Hermione was grateful for the assistance, but couldn't speak those words to whoever was helping her, for more vomit desperately surged up her throat.

"Breathe," Malfoy's cool voice ordered, the man evidently the same person who was assisting her.

A thud ripped through the kitchen, Hermione controlling herself long enough to glance over to the source of the noise. Pansy Parkinson lay sprawled out on the floor, clearly having fainted from the sight of the gruesome scene in the meat locker. Octavia was sobbing hysterically, Mr Zabini holding her violently shaking body against his, allowing the lady to cry into his chest. But his eyes were on those of the man behind Hermione, the pair silently communicating with one another.

After a brief moment, Mr Malfoy stepped away from Hermione, her curls falling back into place as she ceased her upchucking fit. He quickly returned with a damp napkin, turning her around to face him.

Silver eyes scanned her sickly pale complexion as he wiped gently at the traces of bile on her lips and chin. She allowed him to clean her face, their gazes connected the entire time, her panic slowly subsiding as she sought and found comfort in his eyes.

In the penetrative, silver eyes of an admitted killer. And Hermione suddenly realised: There were only ten of them left, but a meagre one was innocent.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Standing in front of the long, dusty mirror in her boudoir, Octavia chewed her bottom lip anxiously, eyeing her appearance. Bags dared to appear under her blood-shot eyes, the evidence of her prior sobbing fit displayed on her face. Her lips were swollen from being smooshed against Mr Zabini's chest whilst she wept, but that was only increased by her anxious chewing. A normally pale complexion had taken a sickly turn, and Octavia could honestly admit to be appalled by her own appearance.

Accustomed to being the exceptionally pretty girl she was, Octavia found herself to be a little insecure in that moment. For with the changes to her appearance, she saw nothing pretty about her reflection, only seeing distress and poor health. It hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things, but it mattered to her greatly in that moment.

After an hour in her bedroom, following the chaos in the kitchen, Octavia had yet to find slumber in her bed. That fact is what had brought her to the mirror, pinching her cheeks to create a rosy effect, and combing her fingers through her loose curls to smoothen the wild tresses. Octavia had to look her best – well, her best possible, given the circumstances – for her plans to possess a glimmer of success.

Hardly a loose woman, Octavia felt utterly ashamed about her plans, but her fear outweighed all concepts of decency. If she was going to have a shot at sleeping that night, she would have to feel safe enough to do so. And in order to feel safe, she had to go to the man who provided her with that very sense of security: Mr Zabini.

Exhaling a shaky sigh of nerves, Octavia loosened the tie around her nightgown, parting the fabric to reveal a slither of her silk nightslip. It was a modest nightslip, featuring black lace at the hem and bosom, coming down to her knees, but to display it so boldly was a questionable act indeed.

Octavia quickly lifted her nightslip to adjust her black stockings and holsters before nodding to herself in approval. It was the best she would look, she decided, even if a little promiscuous.

Scurrying over to the door, Octavia unlocked it carefully, ensuring that she made as little noise as possible. If she were to be caught in such a compromising position – sneaking out of her room in her nightwear – it would cause a great scandal. A scandal that may never make it off the island.

As she slowly pulled the door open, Octavia held her breath, as though her breathing alone would awaken the others in their own bedrooms. But it didn't, thankfully. Tip-toeing around in a semi-circle, Octavia clicked the door closed quietly, before turning to face the desired direction of the dimly lit corridor.

The moment her gaze fixed ahead, the breath was knocked out of her, so to speak. Ahead was Mr Zabini, leaning against the wall, facing his bedroom door, smoking a cigarette. His gaze was already on her sneakiness, his expression perfectly composed, one hand stuffed in his trouser pocket.

Blinking stupidly at the man, Octavia's lips parted, gaping a little as he flicked his cigarette to the floor. She watched as he pushed himself from the wall and stepped on the cigarette butt, his gaze never leaving hers. Silently, he extended one hand toward her, gesturing for her to take it.

Suddenly, Octavia became very aware – he had been waiting for her. Mr Zabini had somehow known that she would come for him, but she only hoped that he knew the true purpose of her impropriety. Octavia didn't want him to get the wrong idea. But honestly, she couldn't blame him if he did misinterpret the situation. After all, she was a lady of fine breeding and high standing, sneaking into another man's bedroom at night, wearing nothing but her nightwear. It was all very improper.

Swallowing thickly, Octavia hesitantly walked toward him, the darkness in his black eyes pulling her into a trance of sorts. All doubts of her actions quickly evaporated as she neared him – neared his _eyes_. They were so dark, dangerous and, dare she say, seductive.

When she reached the silent gentleman, Octavia placed her slender hand in his, gazing up at him as he clasped his fingers around hers. Without warning, his eyes tore away from hers as he turned and guided her into his bedroom, closing the door behind him with a nearly inaudible _click_.

"Why were you out there?" Octavia whispered, her back to Mr Zabini.

"If you must know," Mr Zabini answered quietly, stepping toward her, the proximity of his chest tingling her back. "I was guarding your door, Octavia."

She didn't correct his first-name addressing of her, but she tensed at the sound of how he purred her name with such allure and seduction, causing a tingle to shiver down her spine.

"I couldn't sleep," Octavia breathed as he brushed her curls into one cascading heap down her back. "I don't feel safe here."

"I know," he whispered, slipping off her nightgown with slow, delicate movements. Worst of all, she allowed it. "But you are safe with me."

The light material of her nightgown fell to the floor, pooling at her stocking-clad feet. A light gasp escaped her parted lips as he gently grabbed a fistful of her tight curls, pulling her head back against his chest, her face tilted upwards. Glazed over hazel eyes gazed up at the gentleman's dark orbs, a powerful vibration of dominance coursing between them through the silence. An ache assaulted her womanhood, but she did all in her control to keep the desires at bay.

"I will not touch you," Mr Zabini purred seductively, grazing his pink lips against the smooth skin of her forehead. "Unless you request otherwise, my hands will refrain from caressing your body, Lady Sinclair. As I have mentioned already, you are safe with me."

In a complete cloud of lust and utterly indecent sensations, Octavia only managed a choked whimper in response. At the sound, Mr Zabini's lips were felt against her forehead, twisting into a wide grin. His hand was still buried in her cascading curls, his grip loose, but demanding. It sent a very clear message to the Lady – one that she heard, loud and clear. He wanted her.

Suddenly Octavia's body felt cold, for he had released her curls and stepped away from her. With his swift escape, Octavia came crashing back to reality, a fierce blush burning at her crimson cheeks.

"I may not touch you, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini spoke from behind her, "but I will be occupying my bed tonight. It is your choice as to where you will rest."

"So much for chivalry, Mr Zabini," Octavia sniffed, eyeing the small sofa against the wall disdainfully.

"If I were truly the chivalrous man you expect me to be, Lady Sinclair, I would not have granted you entry to my chambers." Mr Zabini smirked, dark eyes scanning her long, wild curls.

"By that logic, I would be no lady of decent behaviour by entering said chambers," Octavia argued, turning to face the smirking handsome man.

"You are whatever you claim to be," Mr Zabini shrugged casually, hands in his pockets. "And tonight, you claim to be frightened. I am merely assisting you to the best of my abilities by ensuring that you feel safe enough to rest, whether it be on the couch, or in my bed."

"I will sleep in the bed, Mr Zabini," Octavia declared, narrowed eyes fixed on his growing smirk. "And you will sleep on the sofa. It is not a debatable matter, sir."

Zabini raised his eyebrows, evidently a little surprised, but continued to smirk arrogantly at the snooty lady. He watched as she turned on her heels and teetered over to the bed. A dramatic demonstration of the woman climbing into the bed was presented before him, only serving to increase his amusement. Once she was settled in the bed, her back to him, Blaise shook his head and unfastened the top three buttons of his shirt.

Whilst he had asserted that he would sleep in the bed, it seemed that his mind had changed, and he opted to lounge on the sofa instead.

* * *

*.*.*.*.*

* * *

The vibrations of a bell clanging out pierced through the walls of the château. The morning sunrise crept in through the windows, illuminating the dust particles in the air. Hermione groaned as she awoke unceremoniously to the repeated rings and clangs of a bell, the booming sound so deep that she almost entertained the thought that it was, in fact, a gong.

Sluggishly, she awoke fully in the bed, rubbing her hands over her weary and tired face. A mere two seconds passed before she fell back into reality, becoming acutely aware of her surroundings and circumstances. For a moment there – one very, exquisitely blissful moment – Hermione had almost thought that the realities were nothing but a nightmare. A horrid dream, but it wasn't. It was her life. Trapped on an island. And the bell clanging through the home could only mean one thing.

Another had died.

Whipping the sheets from her body, Hermione flung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet landing harshly on the cold floor of her boudoir. She leapt out of the bed hurriedly, grabbing her nightgown as she sprinted toward the door. Before she exited, however, Hermione ensured that the nightgown was securely slipped onto her body, fastened tightly at her torso.

Once satisfied with her semi-inappropriate attire, Hermione fled the bedroom, into the hallway, many others doing the same. In the corridor, the men shuffled out of their bedrooms frantically, whilst attempting to fasten up the buttons of their shirts with fumbled movements. Sleepiness etched onto every guest's features, but Hermione found her attention snapping to two people in particular.

Lady Sinclair and Mr Zabini exited the latter's bedroom together. The Lady featured a fierce blush as everyone eyed them suspiciously, judgement and awareness tingling in the atmosphere. Mr Zabini's shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a perfectly sculpted, tanned and slightly scarred chest, whilst the Lady wore her night garments and a silk gown. Hermione did not wish to learn of their activities in Mr Zabini's bedroom.

Another clang of the bell rang out, reminding all guests in the corridor of the reason for their abrupt awakenings. Mr Malfoy was the first of the bunch to slip into action, wearing nothing but his trousers. The gentleman strode down the hall at a brisk pace, the others quickly falling into step behind him.

As they journeyed through the corridors and down the central staircase, Hermione glanced repeatedly around her, noticing that all guests were in attendance. Only the servants were absent.

Before they could descend the full length of the staircase, Mr Malfoy held out his arm to stop the others from continuing. Hermione slinked around him, peering over his extended arm to the base of the staircase, whitening instantly at what she saw.

As the staircase led to the main atrium of the grand home, the sobbing Mr Longbottom could be seen pulling the rope of a bell above, his body wracked with violent tears. The cause of his distress was clear to everyone.

Mrs Luna Longbottom lay, sprawled out, at the bottom of the staircase, wide vacant eyes gazing up at the bell, void of any hints of life. The sight was a grisly one to behold, for it seemed that every bone in her body had been broken. The maid's chest lay flat on the floor, her back facing upwards, but so did her head, for her neck had been twisted around sickeningly. Her legs were bent in the most gruesome of ways, a trail of dried blood seeping from the corner of her parted lips.

Hermione placed her hand on her rapidly beating heart, shutting her eyes and turning her sickly pale face to the side. Despite witnessing a much grislier corpse the night prior, seeing another dead body only served to, again, present the nausea brewing inside of her.

"What's that?" Lady Parkinson rasped, pointing to a smear of blood almost hidden by the corpse's broken hand.

Mr Zabini casually descended the rest of the steps, Mr Malfoy at his side. The blonde gentleman crouched down in front of the smear of blood, indelicately moving the shattered and bruised hand, seemingly the opposite of squeamish. Mr Zabini stuffed his hands into his pockets as he stood beside the corpse, assessing it coolly.

"It's a word," Mr Malfoy said after a pause, rising to his feet. " _Murderer_."

Everyone's stares darted to the weeping butler who clung onto the bell rope, crying roughly. The hoarse sound caused the women to show compassion on their expressions, but the men seemed to only become suspicious in their observations of the now-widowed butler.

"I think it best that we convene in the drawing room," Mr Malfoy instructed, stepping over the corpse indifferently.

The others on the staircase slowly climbed down the remainder of the steps, Ginevra and Octavia weeping quietly. Hermione simply appeared too shocked to process much, while Pansy Parkinson featured an expression of sympathy in the direction of Mr Longbottom.

The lady was the first to approach the butler, placing her slender hand on his jerking shoulder as he sobbed.

"Mr Longbottom," Pansy said softly, her voice almost drowned out by the sheer loudness of his cries. "Perhaps you should join us. I am certain that Miss Weasley will gladly see to our breakfast this morning."

Ginevra bristled instantly as the group reached the bottom of the stairs, but didn't argue the matter. It would be unseemly of her to contradict a lady, even if she was acquainted with her in whatever manner she was.

"I don't believe that we should allow a woman to wander the home by herself," Hermione chimed in, her brows furrowed in concern. "An escort would be preferable."

"Mr Potter," Malfoy addressed, inclining his head in a gesture of assignment.

The police officer appeared less than pleased, but nodded once and followed Ginevra out of the foyer in the direction of the staff kitchens.

*.*.*

As there was no maid to tend to the fireplace, the drawing room possessed an icy chill from the wintery weather outside. A draft could be heard screeching through invisible cracks in the windowpane, adding the scattered coughing noises and swishes of drinks being poured at the bar.

Mr Longbottom sat in an armchair in the centre of the room, face buried in his hands as he remained silent. The sobbing fit had subdued shortly after their entrance to the drawing room, but Hermione suspected that it had a lot to do with the generous helpings of brandy he had indulged in.

The others remained silent as Ginevra and Mr Potter entered the room, each carrying silver trays of biscuits and coffees with them. Both properly dressed, Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini stood by the bar, eyeing Mr Longbottom intently, quietly whispering among themselves. Hermione sat close beside Octavia on the plush sofa, the lady silent as ever, blood-shot eyes fixed on the carpeted floor. The two weren't exactly comrades, but seemed to gravitate toward one another in times of distress.

Pansy Parkinson stood by the window, gazing outside at the stormy morning, a small sherry glass gripped firmly in her hand. Hermione suspected that their stay at Durrem Island would quickly convert all survivors – if there were any – into alcoholics in no time at all.

Ginevra poured a few mugs of black, freshly-ground coffee before handing them out to those who extended their hands. Hermione, Wilbly and Octavia were the only guests who had taken the offered coffees.

"Mr Longbottom," Potter began, his voice rough with lack of sleep and elevated stress. "I am sympathetic to your loss, but I am sure that you understand what I must do."

"What must you do, Mr Potter?" Hermione butted in, cupping her warm mug tightly in her hands.

"I must ask questions," Potter answered, not sparing a glance at the woman. "It has to be done, Mr Longbottom, so please do your best to co-operate."

The butler slowly dropped his hands from his face to his lap, clasping them tightly together. His blood-shot eyes remained fixed on the carpet, but the barely noticeable nod he performed indicated that he was in agreement.

"Now," Potter began, his tone suddenly taking a professional turn. "At what time did you find Mrs Longbottom in her current state?"

"Six in the morning," Longbottom whispered, voice hoarse and shaky. "Right before I rang the bell."

"And you did not notice her departure from the bedroom – that I am sure you shared with your wife – before that time?"

"I did," Longbottom nodded. "She leaves at five in the morning to start breakfast every day, sir. When I got up, I went to the kitchens to help, but she wasn't there. I thought she had gone to ring the wake-up bell, so that's where I went … and she was there …"

"Was she dead when you found her?" Potter asked.

"Yes, sir," Longbottom whispered, palpably speaking the truth.

"Do you have any idea as to what crime the words were referring to?" Mr Malfoy interjected, Potter looking simply aghast at being interrupted.

"I do," Longbottom nodded, fresh tears welling up in his blood-shot eyes. "I … I told her not to say anything, sir. She wanted to confess, and … My wife and I, we argued last night before bed. We never argue, but we did last night. I told her to keep quiet about what she had done … The last words I spoke to her … I told her that we would burn in hell for all eternity regardless of a confession. I told her that admitting it would only bring her under attack."

"Attack from who?" Mr Zabini asked coolly, lighting himself a cigarette as Mr Malfoy did the same.

"Lady Parkinson," Neville whispered, almost inaudibly.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the mentioned lady, noticing that her body had stiffened, but she kept her back to the others.

"My wife and I …" Neville began, his expression totally numb, yet agonised. "We had once served a noble woman who was rather unwell. Anger was a daily emotion for the Lady, and my wife … she was the primary victim, you see. Our Lady would constantly direct her outbursts toward my wife, sometimes kicking her while she was cleaning, or slapping her for smelling like the kitchens. A very violent woman."

Pansy Parkinson slowly turned around to face the others, remaining silent as her eyes darkened dangerously. Hermione suspected that Pansy knew the direction the tale was headed in.

"The Lady was the wife of a well-respected Lord," Neville continued. "But he had sent her away to live in isolation in the highlands. I don't know the reason for her parting, but rumours spoke of a fit she had experienced where she had killed her husband's mistress in cold blood. After working for the Lady, I wouldn't be surprised if it was true."

"Your wife killed my mother, didn't she, Mr Longbottom?" Pansy drawled, her eyes and tone as icy as ever.

"Yes, ma'am," Neville croaked, tears leaking from his saddened eyes. "Lady Ethel Parkinson was the woman we served. One day … One day my wife was escorting her from her bedroom to the dining room. But our Lady was having a violent day, and had attempted to shove my wife down the stairs. I … I was in the foyer and saw the whole thing, but I could not stop it. My wife … Well, she simply cracked. Who wouldn't? Days of physical abuse and humiliation … Luna just cracked … She pushed the Lady down the stairs. Luna didn't mean it … She had only acted on impulse, and it caused Lady Parkinson to break her neck and … almost every bone in her body. She was dead before she reached the bottom of the stairs. I covered it up … Made it look like an accident …"

"My father hung for that crime!" Pansy spat, the glass of sherry shattering in her hand from the sheer tightness of her grip. "My innocent father was sentenced, charged and killed for the murder of my mother!"

Suddenly, Pansy sprinted toward the seated pale butler, lunging at the man with a promise of wrathful vengeance. Before she could reach Mr Longbottom, Mr Potter leapt out just in time, snatching Pansy by the arm, keeping her at distance from the grieving butler.

"I will kill you for this!" Pansy shrieked shrilly, flailing wildly against Mr Potter. "I'll see you hang for this, peasant! Mark my words, sir, you will hang!"

Octavia just sat, witnessing the scene, lips parted and eyes wide with shock. She had always suspected that Lord Parkinson was innocent of his accused crime, but here it was, the evidence and confession – a little too late to save the deceased Lord.

Forcing her composure to slip into place, Octavia rose from the chair, gaze fixed on the hysterically flailing Pansy. The blonde strolled over to the central table, placing her mug down before she approached Potter and Pansy.

"Mr Potter," Octavia addressed calmly, but her watery eyes contradicted her cool demeanour. "Will you please escort Lady Parkinson and myself to her bedroom? I think it appropriate that she rest for the time being."

"Yes, ma'am," Potter gruffed, looking less than eager. It was clear as day that the police officer fancied himself to be the interrogator of the group, as opposed to the assigned position of chaperone.

Octavia nodded her head once in gratitude before she walked over to the bar, ignoring Mr Zabini's intense stare entirely. As she reached the bar, Octavia wasted not a moment before retrieving a bottle of brandy – without tumblers – and met Potter by the door. Pansy had now resulted to a sobbing fit of blubbers and whimpers, laying limply in Potter's firm embrace. He shifted her around huffily, scooping the distraught lady into his arms and departed the drawing room without another word, Octavia at his heels.

"I cannot be the only person in this room to suspect Lady Parkinson," Ginevra said the moment the door clicked shut.

"I believe you are," Hermione argued, her sorrowful gaze fixed on the door.

"Have you yet to connect the clues?" Mr Zabini smirked cruelly, drinking scotch whiskey from a crystal tumbler. "Mr Potter, according to yourself, showed a reaction to the mention of Lady Parkinson's father. Mrs Longbottom killed her mother, and Mr Longbottom covered it up. The cover-up then led to the hanging of her father. Following all that business, Miss Weasley here became acquainted with Lady Parkinson at a mental asylum. It all stems back to Lady Parkinson."

"What of Mr Black?" Hermione countered.

"The statement," Mr Malfoy began, butting out his cigarette on the bar carelessly. "It could have been in relation to Lord Parkinson's trial. Therefore, Mr Black has been punished for the crime of deceit, making him a punished liar."

" _To leave_ ," Hermione said, repeating the words of the telegram, " _the innocent must be identified and protected. But heed caution, for even the innocent amongst you is the victim of all of you._ It stands to reason that Lady Parkinson is the innocent and the victim, sir. That is, if your theory is correct in any sense of the word."

The doors to the drawing room creaked open, a tired Octavia and grumpy Potter entering. They both returned to their original places prior to their departure, but this time, Octavia made sure to pour herself a brandy on the way.

"How is she?" Longbottom asked, miserable gaze fixed on the carpet.

"As well as one would expect, Mr Longbottom," Octavia replied crisply, seating herself beside Hermione.

"Right," Potter began, clearing his throat importantly. "Now that we're all together, and she's upstairs, let's talk about how Lady Parkinson is obviously the killer."

"Always three steps behind," Mr Malfoy smirked, swirling his tumbler leisurely, mocking the detective. "We have already begun to discuss and debate the suspicion. Miss Granger seems to be unconvinced."

"You believe that Lady Parkinson is behind all this?" Octavia gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.

"With sufficient evidence, of course," Mr Zabini nodded. "Lady Parkinson seems to have connections unravelling with every person in this room. Miss Weasley and the Lady are acquainted, the Longbottoms were behind the death of her mother, and Mr Potter showed reaction to her father's name."

"According to Miss Granger," Potter corrected, chin raised confidently. "I don't know the man, and I never have."

"What about Mr Black?" Octavia argued, ignoring Mr Potter altogether.

"The police statement – signed off by Mr Potter – could have been a product of deceit, and perhaps in relation to Lord Parkinson's trial," Mr Zabini shrugged.

"And Mr Nott?" Octavia smirked, aware that no connection there had been revealed as of yet.

Grazing her gaze around the occupants of the room, Octavia smiled falsely, relishing in her small victory. No one responded, for there was no connection to relay.

"What about you, Lady Sinclair?" Ginevra accused. "Did you not mention that your brother – deceased, as it happens – was the fiancé of Lady Parkinson?"

"I did," Octavia nodded once, the smile wiped off her face at the mention of her brother. "But I do not recall informing you of that intimate detail."

At this, Octavia shot Hermione a knowing side-glance, the brunette having the decency to look ashamed. It was clear that Octavia wasn't the only gossiping woman in the drawing room.

"That's just another connection right there," Ginevra argued. "How did your brother die again, Lady Sinclair?"

"My brother had an unfortunate accident," Octavia sniffed, her hazel eyes dimming noticeably. "You are implying utter nonsense, Miss Weasley. I am not guilty of any crimes, nor is my friend, Lady Parkinson. She is the innocent, as am I."

"Ah," Blaise grinned, the rim of his glass hovering near his lips. "There can only be one innocent, Lady Sinclair. And since you seem absolutely certain of Lady Parkinson's innocence, that could only suggest your guilt."

"I am no guiltier than the rest of you," Octavia scowled in an unladylike manner.

Blaise grinned even wider if possible, reclining arrogantly against the bar.

"My Lady," Blaise purred, grinning like a Cheshire cat, "that would make you _incredibly_ guilty."

"I am obviously not referring to the admitted killers in this room, Mr Zabini," Octavia clipped sternly. "I simply mean to align my innocence with that of Miss Weasley's, Mr Wilby's and Miss Granger's. I do not believe that any of us three are capable of such ghastly offenses."

"Oi!" Potter snapped. "Are you implying that I –"

"Yes, Mr Potter," Octavia smiled, meeting his incredulous stare. "I am."

"My money's on Miss Weasley," Wilby grunted, gesturing his bottle of scotch in the woman's direction.

"I beg your pardon?" Miss Weasley hissed rather venomously.

"You met Lady Parkinson in an asylum," Wilby slurred. "You two were bickering last night in the corner, being a bit secretive and suspicious. You're hysterical nearly all of the time, and obviously mad."

"How dare you say such things to me, Mr Wilby!" Ginevra gasped. "I have stated my reasons for admittance to the asylum, and my mental health was never in doubt, sir. I merely sought treatment for my grief."

"Who died?" Potter asked, folding his arms over his chest. "Who died in your life for your grief to send you to a loony bin?"

Ginevra paled instantly, blinking stupidly as the memories seeped into her mind. The memories she had evidently attempted to ignore in order to maintain her sanity.

"My sweetheart," Ginevra whispered after a moment, swallowing thickly. "That is all I will say on the matter, for it is my private business."

"I'm a cop, ma'am." Potter countered. "I ask what I need to and if you don't cooperate –"

"I will cooperate with a police officer when we leave this island," Ginevra snapped. "And certainly one far more capable than yourself, Mr Potter."

A deep rumbling sound interrupted the arguments, coming from the direction of Mr Malfoy. The blonde smirked, extending his arms in a dismissive apology, the noise having evidently come from his stomach.

"Drama does increase my appetite," Mr Malfoy said without shame, Blaise grinning widely beside him.

"There is food right there, sir," Hermione blushed, gesturing toward the platter of biscuits.

"Forgive me, but snacks have never been a breakfast food of choice in my opinion," Mr Malfoy shrugged. "Too much sugar is hardly beneficial for your health, Miss Granger."

Octavia scoffed indelicately, finding much humour in his regard for his health. Mr Malfoy's line of work was clearly a dangerous one, so to imagine the gentleman moderating his sugar intake after a kill was almost humorous.

"I will prepare lunch," Mr Longbottom whispered, pushing himself from the chair.

"Mr Longbottom," Hermione argued. "Perhaps you should rest, instead. Perhaps take time to come to terms with your loss?"

"I should keep busy, ma'am," Mr Longbottom frowned. "Keeping myself distracted until … we get off this island, if we ever do. I should prepare lunch."

"If you insist," Mr Malfoy nodded, no sympathies coming from the man. "I am famished. Perhaps you could whip up toasted walnut bread and battered ham. If it's not too much trouble, of course."

"Of course, sir," Longbottom bowed before taking his leave.

"How lovely of you, sir," Hermione spat. "The man has only just lost his wife, and you are requesting freshly baked breads and a generous spread of meat?"

"Forgive me, Miss Granger," Malfoy smirked. "But I find that I do not care that he has lost his wife. I care only about my hunger."

Octavia wanted to voice her agreement with Hermione, but found that she, too, was a little on the hungry side. And walnut bread really was quite delicious.

As the thought flittered through her mind, her gaze moved to the black eyes of Mr Zabini, a blush creeping up her cheeks at his dark stare. It was almost as though he could read her mind, for the smirk on his lips suggested as much. But of course, that was a silly notion, and one she would not entertain any further.

Averting her gaze from Mr Zabini's, Octavia rose from the chair and straightened out her silk ivory dress.

"I should check on Lady Parkinson," Octavia declared to the room. "She may wish to join us for lunch."

"I will accompany you," Zabini stated, placing his tumbler on the bar.

"It is not necessary, sir –"

"I will escort you, Lady Sinclair," Zabini interrupted, his tone suddenly severe. "A woman should not wander alone around this manor house. There is a killer on the loose. Well, there are many killers here, but one in particular that present a threat to you. Escorts are necessary, and I must insist, My Lady."

Octavia frowned before she nodded in agreement. It was a decent point that he presented, and she admittedly felt safe in his presence, so argued no further. The tanned gentleman offered his arm to her, Octavia puckering her lips as she politely placed her hand atop the extended limb. A smirk danced on his lips, but she paid it no mind and allowed him to escort her through the grand home.

The pair remained in a silence as they went, but it was hardly the awkward kind. The atmosphere between them was thick with a particular sort of tension – one that Octavia had no business mulling over in her mind.

Eventually, they reached their desired destination, Octavia taking the lead as she knocked lightly on the door.

No answer came, but they waited patiently regardless. Again, after a few moments had passed, Octavia raised her slender hand, clenching it into a fist before knocking once more.

"Maybe she has drowned herself in brandy," Mr Zabini suggested with a smirk, taking to reclining against the wall and lighting a cigarette. "Or in her tears, maybe."

"You are a crass man, Mr Zabini," Octavia sighed wearily, knocking for the third time.

"That is an unfair assessment, Octavia," Mr Zabini grinned, relishing in the anger brewing in her hazel eyes at the familiar address. "I am hardly sensitive, – in that sense, you are correct – but I pride myself on my intellect."

"I doubt you know the meaning of the word, sir," Octavia drawled, knocking a bit more rudely now.

"Now, now," Zabini chided teasingly. "That is no way for a lady to speak."

Inhaling deeply though her flared nostrils, Octavia closed her eyes and prayed to God for the patience required to deal with the man. He had a way of gnawing at her tolerance and gaining a reaction from her.

"Has anyone ever told you how alluring you are when you are irritated?" Mr Zabini asked, smirking wickedly.

"No, Mr Zabini." Octavia gritted through clenched teeth. "They haven't."

"Hardly surprising," Zabini said, puffing at his cigarette as he observed her. "Your nose scrunches up in the most unattractive way."

A crack echoed through the corridor as Octavia's hand belted across his face suddenly. Mr Zabini leaned against the wall, face turned to the side, a pink tinge growing on his cheek. But his smirk only spread into a wide grin, evidently taking immense pleasure in her infuriation.

"My, my," Zabini laughed, pushing himself from the wall. "Aren't you a violent woman of grace and refinement? Is that a hobby of yours – slapping everyone and their mothers?"

"Oh, don't you ever shut up?" Octavia hissed before she began punching the door unceremoniously.

"Would you care to make me, Lady Sinclair?" Mr Zabini grinned, toying with her.

"I would care to do nothing of the sort with you, Mr Zabini," Octavia spat, giving up on her assaults directed at the door.

"We will see," Zabini teased, puffing at his cigarette.

"What do you mean by that, sir?"

"I mean, Lady Octavia, we will soon learn your intentions with my virtue tonight, won't we?" Zabini grinned. "When you are too afraid to sleep, so come sneaking down this very corridor in pursuit of my bedroom, and by extension, _me_."

"You make the mistake of assuming I fancy your company in times of distress, when in truth, I fancy the protection of the weapon you carry." Octavia argued, sniffing importantly. "Now do shut up, sir."

Mr Zabini only laughed as she banged on the door again, and like all other times, received no response.

"Pansy?" Octavia called, fingers clasping around the doorknob. "I am entering your bedroom now – please ensure that you are presentable!"

Nothing.

Sighing wearily, Octavia turned the handle and opened the door slowly. Once the door was fully opened, the last thing Octavia remembered was her own screams of horror before it all went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

The echoing shouts of Mr Zabini had reached the guests in the drawing room, gearing them into action. Hermione sprinted behind Mr Malfoy through the château, the others scattered around as they all raced toward the source of the commotion. Mr Zabini hollered repeatedly, calling for Mr Malfoy, and by extension, the others.

The clunky heels of the women clacked through the home as the group ascended the stairs hurriedly, the men taking two steps at a time to shorten the distance in less time. Hermione already begun to feel the premature nausea creep up inside of her at the prospect of what she neared. But it was a feeling she would have to become accustomed to, for she doubted that it would be the last time it would assault her. On that island, more would die, and by result, Hermione would forever be plagued with acidic bile in her throat.

Reaching the guest bedroom corridor, the unusual group of acquaintances ran down the hall, Mr Malfoy leading the way. Although, Mr Potter was clearly attempting to outrun the blonde man, presumably to appoint himself as the leader of the group. The police officer was evidently swine in the worst of times, craving the status of alpha among them.

The party of unwilling guests poured into the bedroom of Lady Parkinson, Mr Malfoy guiding them there as it was the only bedroom with an open door. Hermione skidded to a halt once she passed over the threshold, taking in the scene she was met with upon arrival.

Mr Zabini knelt on the floor, cradling an unconscious Lady Sinclair in his arms, but his gaze was fixed on the bed. For on the bed was a corpse.

Lady Parkinson lay on the mattress, seemingly enjoying a peaceful slumber at first glance. But after taking a closer look at the woman, Hermione noticed the small vial in her loose grip, and the trail of vomit trickling from the corner of her parted lips.

Mr Malfoy approached the bed swiftly, pressing his middle and index finger against the smooth neck of the Lady. A pause passed before he removed his hand and took the vial from the motionless fingers of the corpse. After he inspected it swiftly, Mr Malfoy tossed it to the cop by the doorway, Mr Potter fumbling with the small bottle before catching it.

"Arsenic," Mr Malfoy announced, shaking his head marginally to indicate that the Lady was deceased.

Mr Potter cleared his throat, attempting to regain his professional composure as he sauntered toward the bed. He pretended to inspect the corpse for a moment before nodding once to indicate that he concurred with Mr Malfoy's blatantly truthful assessment.

"Suicide," Mr Potter said, entering into a contest of the ego variety with Mr Malfoy.

"That's what it looks like," Wilby gruffed from the doorway, narrowed eyes darting between Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair.

"What are you insinuating, Mr Wilby?" Zabini asked coolly, his darkened gaze meeting that of the drunk's.

"Well it's a bit funny, innit?" Wilby scoffed. "You and Sinclair run off together, next thing we know Lady Parkinson is dead."

"There appears to be no signs of a struggle," Mr Potter argued, returning to visually assessing the body.

"Could've snuck the poison in her brandy," Wilby shrugged, Miss Weasley's eyes widening in realisation.

"Lady Sinclair retrieved a bottle of brandy before returning Lady Parkinson to her bedroom," Ginevra gasped.

"I was with her the whole time we put Lady Parkinson to bed," Mr Potter said. "She couldn't have done it without my noticing."

"Because you are so perceptive, sir," Ginevra rolled her watery eyes, Potter stiffening at the insult.

"May we continue this ludicrous discussion elsewhere?" Hermione snapped, seemingly the only person in the room to be disgusted at the sight of the corpse, other than Ginevra of course. Perhaps everyone but her had become accustomed to the dead bodies scattered around the manor house?

"I must agree," Mr Zabini nodded, rising to his feet, carrying Lady Sinclair in his arms as she lay limp. "I would prefer Lady Sinclair not awake to the scene that had caused her to faint in the first place."

Wilby rolled his eyes in judgement of Zabini's chivalry, but pushed himself from the door panel regardless. Gradually, everyone exited the room, Hermione sparing one last – evidently sorrowful – glance at the corpse on the bed before she departed. Mr Malfoy closed the door tightly behind him once they all stood in the hallway, all guests seemingly waiting for further instruction.

"Back to the drawing room?" Wilby asked, glancing between Mr Zabini and Mr Malfoy.

"If you like," Mr Malfoy shrugged, taking no interest in his appointed leadership role.

"Are we just going to leave her like that?" Ginevra whispered, tears glistening in her eyes.

"What do you propose we do?" Mr Malfoy countered.

"I don't know," Ginevra frowned. "But surely it would be best for us to pay a semblance of respect? Perhaps we could bury her?"

"Can't touch the crime scenes, ma'am," Potter declared authoritatively. "They need to stay where they are until help arrives."

Not a soul responded. For that one word lingered in the air between them all. _Help_. A funny thing. For no one truly believed that it was coming.

*.*.*

Octavia clutched tightly onto a crystal tumbler of brandy as though it was her very life source. Seated next to Hermione in the drawing room, she remained quiet, frequently swallowing generous gulps of the wretched beverage to calm her frayed nerves.

Pansy and herself had been close friends since the beginning of their days. Their family estates were only four miles apart, so it stood to reason that they spent most of their days in the company of one another. So to learn of Pansy's death was a horrid discovery, but made worse by witnessing the lifeless body itself. Although, it was made _even worse_ – if possible – by what she had awoken to: Accusations fired in various directions, and overall panic.

"I cannot agree, Mr Wilby," Hermione sighed wearily. "If Lady Sinclair had slipped poison into Lady Parkinson's brandy, Mr Potter would have seen it. Additionally, Lady Sinclair returned to the drawing room shortly after, so would have been unable to arrange the body to appear as a suicide, or place the vial in the Lady's hand. It is an unreasonable suspicion to possess, sir."

"It was a suicide," Mr Potter stated. "A clear, cut suicide."

"People don't just go and off themselves willy-nilly," Wilby argued, his claim weak at best.

"Actually, they do, sir." Hermione countered. "Particularly those who had received troubling news moments prior, especially persons who have spent time in an asylum. It seems to me that Lady Parkinson was simply overcome with grief and unable to allow herself the time to heal."

"Pansy was innocent," Octavia whispered, both hands clutching the tumbler of brandy. "She was a troubled woman at times, but only due to the emotional hardships she had endured. Pansy was no liar, no harlot and certainly not a killer."

"No one is disputing that, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini said between puffs of his cigarette.

"You misunderstand me, sir." Octavia croaked. "I mean to address the identity of the innocent, which is clearly Lady Parkinson. We failed to protect her, and we shall all pay the price."

"The telegram," Hermione breathed. "It said, 'to leave, the innocent must be identified and protected. But heed caution, for even the innocent amongst you is the victim of all of you.' Lady Parkinson is the victim and the innocent, but we failed to protect or identify her."

"Precisely my point," Octavia nodded, her tone drenched with bitterness. "The telegram said nothing about the innocent not being targeted."

"Again, we find ourselves here," Mr Zabini smirked, extending his arms widely. "You claim that Lady Parkinson is – correction, _was_ – the innocent among us, but if that was true, it would incriminate you, Lady Sinclair. If the recently deceased Lady is the innocent, that would make you either a liar, an adulterer, or a killer. Which one are you, My Lady?"

"A killer," Octavia whispered, watery hazel eyes fixed on her nearly empty tumbler.

The air tensed immediately, Mr Zabini smirking as he brought his cigarette to his lips, inhaling long and deep, his black gaze on the lady. Hermione scooted away from Octavia a little, whilst Mr Malfoy inspected his nails interestedly.

"I knew it!" Wilby declared suddenly, looking rather proud of himself.

"Oh silence yourself, you utter buffoon!" Octavia snapped viciously. "It was not performed with intent. It was an accident!"

"Care to explain the death of your dearly departed brother, Lady Sinclair?" Zabini grinned, having already suspected her tale of events were shrouded in secrets.

All eyes remained focused on Octavia as she threw back the remainder of her brandy before swallowing thickly. After a moment, the Lady sighed sadly, placing her empty tumbler on the side table.

"A summer day, three years ago, was the worst day of my life, even in comparison to the present," Octavia began, big hazel eyes leaking sad tears. "I am not a strong swimmer, but I decided to cool off in the property lake. It isn't necessarily grand in size, but large enough that it was quite the task for a poor swimmer such as myself. My brother, Oscar, accompanied me to the lake, for he knew the lack of strength I presented in the water."

Hermione had a suspicion as to where the tale was headed, so scooted closer to the Lady and placed her hand on hers, offering comfort with the gesture.

"I reached the centre of the lake before my energy failed me," Octavia continued. "Oscar swam out to retrieve me, but his skills were on par with my own. Once, when we were very little, our mother had almost drowned in the sea, so we were warned off the waters on the property frequently. We had never truly learned to swim with skill and strength. By the time Oscar reached me, I had already begun to sink underwater. I do not remember much, other than the murky waters that surrounded me."

Presumptuously, Octavia slipped her hand from Hermione's, silently taking Hermione's glass of wine for herself. Hermione spoke nothing of it and allowed the distressed Lady to drink her beverage.

"Broken memories are all that remain, I'm afraid to say," Octavia explained after downing all contents of the wineglass. "Oscar managed to swim us halfway to the shore before he, too, grew weak. As luck would have it, one footman had witnessed the scene, and had dove into the lake to retrieve us both. But he could only save one of us. Oscar pushed me toward the servant boy, and I latched onto him to be saved. I had a choice … I could have insisted that he save Oscar, but I didn't. I chose myself."

Vibrations of sympathy, and in some cases, judgement, coursed through the thick silence in the room. Mr Malfoy, however, seemed to have not listened to the sad tale at all, and appeared far more interested in searching the bar for more cigarettes. Mr Zabini remained perfectly stoic, smoking casually as he observed Lady Sinclair with hard, black eyes.

"If cowardice and self-preservation make me a murderer, then I suppose that is what I am," Octavia declared with a hoarse voice, tears staining her blotchy cheeks. "But there is not a day that passes me in which I do not think of my brother. Oscar sacrificed his own life for mine, and in a way, I suppose I granted his dying wish. For I continued to live. Yes, I am a coward, and some may judge me for my actions, but in truth, I was just terribly frightened. So there you have it: I am one of the eight, if my lack of courage qualifies for such a cruel title."

"It doesn't." Hermione assured with a soft smile. "Not to those of sound mind."

"While I have to agree with Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy said, holding a carton of cigarettes evidently found at the bar, "I must point out that we are not in the hands of a sound mind. You are not guilty of murder according to myself, but the person who has brought us here clearly thinks otherwise."

"Again, we have a connection to Lady Parkinson," Potter stated the obvious, adjusting his spectacles importantly. "The death of her fiancé, no less. If the Lady was not deceased, I would in fact suspect her to be behind this sick game."

"We cannot prove all connections lead to Lady Parkinson," Mr Zabini argued, dark eyes fixed on Ginevra. "But I believe that is due to the mistruths of others, wouldn't you agree, Miss Weasley?"

"Pardon me?" Ginevra frowned, considerably pale.

"We are aware that you acquainted yourself with Lady Parkinson at the asylum," Mr Zabini explained. "But the reason for your admittance and the relationship with said Lady are unknown."

"I have already explained this," Ginevra said. "I lost my sweetheart, and was thereby admitted to seek treatment for my grief."

"Thank you, Miss Weasley," Mr Zabini smirked, butting out his cigarette on the bar top.

"For what, if I may ask, are you grateful?" Ginevra frowned.

"For the confirmation of my suspicions," Mr Zabini shrugged, retrieving a bottle of brandy from the bar.

Mr Zabini strolled over to the seated Octavia and Hermione, lifting their empty glasses and filling them generously, his back to Miss Weasley.

"You have only spoke of your admittance twice, if we are including the present discussion," Mr Zabini said, handing Octavia her full tumbler of brandy. "Both times you have used the very mysterious word, 'sweetheart'. I had my suspicions before, but now I feel it appropriate to address them."

Hermione took the offered tumbler of alcohol from the tanned gentleman, watching as Ginevra paled even further. At the same time, Mr Malfoy approached, improperly seating himself beside Hermione on the plush sofa, Mr Zabini doing the same beside Octavia.

"What do you mean to imply, sir?" Ginevra whispered, eyes filled with panic.

"I mean to imply nothing," Mr Zabini smirked. "But I do mean to _assert_ my beliefs that your lover was of the same sex as your own."

Octavia gasped at the indecent accusation, regarding Mr Zabini with the utmost outrage.

"Before you speak," Mr Zabini smirked, addressing the aghast Lady Sinclair, "allow me to present my case. Firstly, we have the deceased – and dismembered – Mr Nott who, as it happens, butchered his own wife for indulging in an affair. He did not claim to have enacted revenge on the man his wife had slept with outside of their marriage, and it causes me to wonder if he ever learned the identity of said person. I believe that Mr Nott's wife had an affair with Miss Weasley, and that Mrs Nott's death is what caused you such grief that you had to be admitted into the asylum."

Octavia simply gaped in horror at the tanned gentleman for suggesting such things, but with a quick glance to Ginevra, her horror shifted to another target. The sheer expression of misery on Ginevra's face was enough to assert that she was guilty of the accused crimes. Ginevra was not only a woman of dreadful morals, she was the adulterer.

"Furthermore," Zabini continued, lighting himself another cigarette, "there is the matter of your acquaintance with the late Lady Parkinson. I believe that the both of you entered into an intimate relationship at the asylum, by means of dealing with your respective sorrows, and perhaps – if I may be so bold to suggest – you ended such relations upon your dismissal from the institute."

"You got all that from what, sir?" Potter interjected, obviously bristled that he hadn't come to the conclusion himself.

"Clues, here and there," Mr Zabini shrugged, submerged in a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Mr Nott had not killed the adulterer that had acted as a lover to his wife. So it stands to reason that he never learned the identity of the adulterer. Miss Weasley's reaction to the photograph of Mrs Nott piqued my suspicions, and that was only increased late last night. I was merely standing in the corridor, enjoying a cigarette, when I heard Miss Weasley's whispered ramblings. I only heard scattered phrases, but enough to know that she was praying and begging for forgiveness. Then the reaction to Lady Parkinson's death – it wasn't of horror, but of sorrow. The kind one would present when filled with guilt."

"Feeble clues," Hermione said. "Not enough to support your claim, Mr Zabini."

"No," Ginevra whispered, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. "It's true, Miss Granger. All of it. I am the adulterer."

"You are a sapphist?" Octavia breathed, judgement radiating from her pores. "Before your bedroom was searched, I supervised you whilst you changed into your nightwear, Miss Weasley. And you are a _saphhist_? Well … I am appalled at your morally questionable lifestyle choices."

"Lifestyle choice?!" Ginevra shrilled, rising from her chair. "You think I would choose this for myself? You think I would actively select to be what I am? I would not wish my preferences on my worst enemy, for it makes me a sinner for something I am unable to control, My Lady. And please, spare me the self-obsession – you are hardly my type."

Octavia released a haughty humph as she raised her nose snootily in the air, averting her gaze from the enraged, watery, blue eyes of the lesbian. Mr Potter regarded Ginevra with palpable distaste before he took an unseemly swig from a bottle of brandy, dropping himself into an armchair.

"Since we are in the stage of confessions," Hermione sighed, rising from the sofa and approaching the bar, "perhaps I should confess my crime."

"You think?" Wilby scoffed, all others ignoring his customary rudeness.

"I cannot be certain if this is the crime that prompted my invite to this island," Hermione said, pouring herself a glass of wine. "But it is the only crime I have ever committed."

Mr Malfoy stood from the sofa, joining Hermione by the bar. He did nothing when he approached but recline against the bar, seemingly offering comfort with his presence alone. Or expressing his alliance to the rude Mr Wilby, perhaps.

"I had an interview in a London apartment three years ago," Hermione began. "The potential employer was incredibly chatty, so the meeting extended late into the night. The hotel room I had booked was hardly the nice sort, therefore was in an … unfavourable part of the city. After the interview ended, I walked to the hotel alone."

Hermione paused, retrieving her glass of wine from the bar before sipping at it for liquid courage.

"As we all are aware," Hermione continued, "a woman walking the tasteless streets of London alone, after nightfall, is hardly preferable or safe. I was frightened, truth be told. As I neared my desired destination, I encountered upon a grisly scene. A man lay in an alleyway I passed, and at first, I merely assumed him to be a drunk."

A sad frown creased at her brow as she recalled the memory, bitterness shining in her honey brown eyes, self-hatred oozing from her pores.

"He called out for me," Hermione explained. "He begged for my help. I approached him cautiously, and saw that the man was of fine standing, definitely a noble or a Lord of sorts. He had been stabbed in the stomach. Probably robbed, one would assume."

"What did you do, Miss Granger?" Octavia whispered, eyes wide as she sat on the edge of her seat, quite literally.

"I ran." Hermione said bitterly. "I intended to assist him, but I saw someone move ahead in the alleyway. A man – I didn't see whom, due to the darkness, but I could see that it was a man. He came closer to me and I …. I turned and I ran. I left that gentleman in the alleyway, and … I do not know what became of him, but given my presence here, I would assume that he died."

A darkness swept through Octavia's eyes, Mr Zabini observing her intently as he continued to smoke his cigarette. But the shadow was gone before anyone else could notice, and Mr Zabini remained silent on the matter.

"How does that connect to the late Lady Parkinson?" Potter frowned, a pensive expression contorting at his features.

"It doesn't," Hermione sighed. "Not in any way I can imagine, sir."

"What of you two?" Ginevra prompted, her inquisitive gaze darting between Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini. "Yes, you have admitted to the dreadful career you both partake in, but how would you both fit into the grand scheme of these affairs?"

"It is difficult to say," Mr Zabini shrugged, reclining leisurely beside Octavia on the sofa.

"You have no indication whatsoever?"

"Miss Weasley," Zabini grinned, "I have killed many men over the duration of my career. Many of them I cared not to learn the names of, particularly in the early years. If there is a connection, I would not know of it."

"And you, sir?" Ginevra pressed, observing Mr Malfoy coolly.

"I have caused the deaths of over one hundred people," Mr Malfoy said without emotion. "They tend to merge together in memories over the years. I cannot claim to be aware of any connection."

"One hundred?" Octavia repeated rather breathlessly. Hermione could be seen stepping away from the hitman cautiously, but all eyes were on Mr Malfoy.

"At least," Mr Malfoy nodded, entirely unashamed. "I lost count a while ago."

"Keep in mind," Mr Zabini interjected, smirking arrogantly, "most of these deaths were in bulk."

"Bulk?" Hermione rasped, pale as a ghost.

"If you were to label our professions," Mr Malfoy explained, "we would be known as mercenaries, of sorts. So throughout our respective careers, our skills were occasionally required overseas. Whether it be burning African villages to the ground, or annihilating soldiers in the war. The body count tends to increase with those contracts."

"Disgusting men," Octavia spat, rising from the chair to tower over the nonchalant Mr Zabini. "You are despicable, sir, and I do hope that you rot in hell for your crimes."

"Do you?" Mr Zabini quirked his brow, lounging leisurely. "Let's not forget the type of men who would have sufficient finances to hire our services, Lady Sinclair. It is the aristocracy we are most acquainted with in the business, for they tend to be the type that would require our services. And boy do they pay handsomely."

"Clearly not all the money in the world could buy you dignity, sir." Octavia seethed, vexed at the jab directed toward her peoples.

"Nor you," Zabini smirked.

Simply put, Octavia looked as though she had been slapped with a glove. It was almost comical the way her big eyes widened, lips parted in shock, standing perfectly still. For she heard the insinuation behind those words, causing memories of her seeking refuge in his bedroom to seep into her mind.

Suddenly, her gaping trap snapped shut, the Lady sniffing haughtily as she regained her composure.

"The judgement of a lowly working-class man is of no importance to a lady of my standing, Mr Zabini," Octavia drawled, watching as the smirk fell from his pink lips.

"Working-class," Zabini repeated slowly, enunciating each syllable dangerously. "I may come from such backgrounds, My Lady, but I am anything but."

"Ha," Octavia mocked, grinning widely, giddy to have gained a reaction from the man. "Once a peasant, always a peasant, sir."

"Is that what you think of me?" Zabini asked, almost growling his words. "You consider me a peasant?"

"What else would have me think?" Octavia laughed cruelly. "That you are somehow on par with someone like myself, sir? How very naïve. You could murder every innocent in England, and your wealth would still never reach mine, let alone your status, sir."

Slowly, ever so slowly, Mr Zabini rose from the chair, Octavia suddenly feeling quite miniscule before him. Dark eyes burning with anger bore down at her defiant hazel orbs, but he saw the glimmer of fright shimmering within them.

"If that is the case, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini whispered, their faces much too close together, "let us see how you shall fare without me. Do not come to me tonight."

Thankfully, his tone was so low that not another soul in the room heard his words but her. Maintaining her poise, Octavia smiled falsely up at him, indicating that it was no matter to her either way. Of course, she was screaming internally, for without the hitman Octavia suspected that she wouldn't fare too well at all.

"While this is all greatly amusing," Mr Malfoy said, slicing through the thick atmosphere without warning, "I have to wonder where our little lying butler has run off too."

"How could I forget?" Mr Zabini spat, black eyes fixed on the snooty woman in front of him. "Lady Sinclair must have her walnut bread."

"I am hungry," Octavia sniffed dismissively, turning her back on the furious man, making sure to flick her curls as she went. Octavia couldn't be sure, but she suspected that her curls whacked him in the face with the movement – good.

"I will check on Mr Longbottom," Hermione declared, placing her empty wineglass on the bar.

"Not without an escort," Mr Malfoy countered, pushing himself from the bar. "Shall we?"

Hermione smiled softly as the man extended his arm to her, and she wasted not a second before placing her hand on his forearm, accepting his offer. The room remained thick with silence and incredibly awkward with tension as the two departed, leaving the others behind.

For the mere pretence of business, Octavia strolled over to the bar and helped herself to an unneeded serving of brandy. Lighting himself a cigarette, Mr Zabini watched her for a moment before turning his attention to Mr Potter.

"So, Mr Potter," Zabini began, re-seating himself on the sofa. "Have you any desire to partake in our communal confessions? Perhaps there is a crime you wish to get off your chest?"

"My business is my business, and no one else's, Mr Zabini."

"Ah," Mr Zabini smirked, though anger still lingered in his dark eyes. "Progress, sir. We have gone from blatant denials to a desire to remain private. Do I detect guilt?"

"May I offer my input?" Ginevra piped up, not waiting for a response. "Whilst it is preferable to ourselves to retain our secrets, perhaps confessing to our crimes will assist us. It is possible that if we all admitted our guilt and the reasons for, we may learn of other connections that tie us together. It is merely a thought, but in truth, I am willing to admit all my sins in order to escape this hell on earth."

"I want a deal." Potter announced sternly. "Anything I say here, on this island, stays among us. If we leave this island, no one is to speak of any other confessions of crimes."

"I believe that is perfectly understandable," Ginevra nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly.

"I concur," Octavia spoke from the bar, her back to the others. It wasn't surprising that the Lady should wish to keep her indirect crime a secret, for even if she was not at fault, it would cause a scandal for her and her family.

"I think I can speak for both myself and Mr Malfoy," Zabini nodded, his gaze shifting to the lady by the bar. "I accept your deal."

"That leaves you, Mr Wilby," Ginevra addressed, expression one of impatience.

"Aye," Wilby saluted his drink, accepting the terms.

"I suppose I am a murderer," Potter admitted, drinking straight whiskey from a tumbler. "Lord Alexander Parkinson, as it happens, but that is no surprise to the lot of you, I should think."

"I suspected as much," Zabini agreed.

"Well," Potter sighed. "I botched the evidence for the Lord's trial. He was going to go free, you know. He was going to get away with killing his wife."

"But he didn't," Octavia interrupted from the bar. "Lord Parkinson did not kill his wife. The Longbottoms did."

"Yeah, well, I know that now, don't I?" Potter muttered. "Still, I paid a man to find me a drunkard. I needed someone to go on the stand and provide a statement. Nothing too fancy, but just overhearing talk. I never met the man, but I got someone to hire him. I didn't realise until I saw the statement after Black died."

"The statement," Zabini interjected, "mentioned that the witness had overheard a conversation at a bar in London. Only days before the death of Lady Ethel Parkinson."

"He was paid to say he heard Lord Parkinson talk about how he wished he was a bachelor," Potter explained. "It was a lie, of course, but an effective one. It wasn't much, but it helped sentence Lord Parkinson to hang by the neck until dead."

"All because you believed he killed his wife?" Ginevra prompted.

"Nah," Potter shook his head. "I thought he did at the time, but it's not why I wanted him to hang."

"Then what was your reasoning, sir?"

"About four years ago, I would be unrecognisable to the lot of you," Potter sighed. "I was a family man, you see. Had it all – a wife, a wee lass and lad, and another on the way. My career was looking up, and I had just bought an automobile for the wife. One night, we took her out for a drive. My wife and kids were excited. We were the only family on the street who had an automobile. We drove up the countryside together, headed to Surrey. That's where the wife's parents lived, you know."

Potter rubbed one hand over his face before he took a swig of his whiskey.

"We got to Surrey alright, but it was late, and we couldn't see the roads too well. My wife was suggesting that I drive, 'cause she wasn't that confident behind the wheel. I agreed and we drove a bit further up, looking for a good spot to take a rest, let the kids run around in a meadow and that."

"And?" Ginevra pressed as Mr Potter paused for a moment too long.

"And," Potter breathed, his voice taking a miserable tone, "we drove up the hill to the crossroads, but another automobile was coming. Didn't even have his blasted headlights on or nothing. Speeding too. Drove us right off the road, and kept going. Only, when we were forced off the road, our automobile flipped and we rolled down the hill. The wife and kids were killed instantly."

"And the driver of the other vehicle?" Ginevra whispered, as though speaking at a normal volume would shatter the thick atmosphere.

"He just kept on driving," Potter croaked, tears welling up in his pained green eyes. "He just drove off, didn't even stop. I couldn't get to my wife or kids. I was just lying there on the road, legs broken, and they were stuck in the automobile – what was left of it, anyway. But I saw that vehicle drive off, and I'll never forget it. I remembered everything about it. A year later, with my whole family dead, I found out who it belonged to. It was Lord Parkinson's automobile. It was that bastard who killed my family."

Mr Zabini's dark eyes darted to Mr Wilby, observing the man as he paled considerably, masking his unease by drinking from the bottle of brandy.

"What I did to Lord Parkinson wasn't murder," Potter spat, regaining the attention of Zabini. "It was justice. He mightn't have killed his wife, but he killed mine and my kids. He paid for it, and I watched him hang with a smile on my face."

"So it truly is all connected to Pansy," Octavia whispered by the bar, Zabini's gaze flickering to her instantly. "Ethel Parkinson, her mother, killed by the help. Alexander Parkinson, her father, killed by a police officer and false evidence. Oscar, her fiancé, killed by myself, but unintentionally. Theodore Nott, killed his unfaithful wife, who had entered into an affair with Miss Weasley. And Miss Weasley …"

"I broke her heart," Ginevra explained, finishing the trailed off sentence. "Pansy begged me to visit her when I was discharged from the asylum. I told her my heart belonged to another who was no longer on this earth, and that it would never belong to her. I didn't love Pansy, but she loved me."

"That doesn't explain Miss Granger's crime," Zabini said. "Nor my own crimes, or those of Mr Malfoy's. Although, we have killed far too many to be sure."

"That just leaves me then," Wilby slurred. "The innocent."

"There we have it!" Ginevra declared. "We have one innocent."

"The telegram said there would be eight killers." Octavia sighed. "Myself, Mr Zabini, Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter, Miss Granger, Mrs Longbottom and Mr Nott. That is only seven. The adulterer is Miss Weasley, and the liars are Mr Longbottom and Mr Black."

"Which leaves the innocent," Wilby hiccupped. "Me."

"Hardly," Octavia scoffed. "For if you are the innocent, sir, that would only mean Lady Parkinson was a murderer. And the telegram specifically detailed that the innocent is also our victim, which could only be Lady Parkinson. So either the telegram is lying, sir, or you are."

"But we failed to protect the Lady," Potter muttered. "So if Lady Parkinson is the innocent, and we failed to protect and identify her in time, what does that mean for us?"

"It means we must wait," Zabini shrugged. "The killer behind this game is still among us. The killer is here, one of us, pretending and observing. We wait for that person to decide if we have won the game to their standards or not. If Lady Parkinson is the innocent, we have lost, but if Mr Wilby is the innocent, we shall expect a boat come morning."

"What do you mean 'if'?" Wilby spat, evidently inebriated. "I'm innocent, I tell ya."

"Time will tell, Mr Wilby," Mr Zabini smirked, clearly unconvinced. "Time will tell."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

Candlelight illuminated the otherwise dim kitchen, providing sparse sight to the two occupants. But in that moment, light was definitely required. Hermione riffled through the cabinets for gas lanterns, in order to further illuminate the dark kitchens. Mr Malfoy hardly helped, but instead, chose to sit on a kitchen bench and smoke himself a cigarette as he watched her intently.

"Mr Longbottom is nowhere to be seen," Mr Malfoy stated the obvious, his tone perfectly calm and cool.

Hermione successfully located two gas lanterns, pulling them out from their designated cabinet before placed them on the centre bench. As she was now facing Mr Malfoy, the heat from his penetrative stare only increased, but she ignored his burning silver eyes as she lit the two lanterns with a single matchstick.

"I would assume that Mr Longbottom has taken some time to come to terms with his grief," Hermione responded now that the lanterns lit the room considerably. With the light, she was able to determine that they occupied the scullery, and not the main kitchens.

"Mr Longbottom specifically stated that he would tend to our meals," Mr Malfoy countered casually, smoking his cigarette without a care in the world. "That was three hours ago, ma'am."

"Yes, well, the man has experienced the most dreadful emotional trauma," Hermione dismissed. "I would hardly be surprised if he has taken to the privacy of his bedroom, sir."

Mr Malfoy butted out his cigarette on the kitchen counter, a deed that was most unhygienic. Hermione pursed her lips in annoyance at the act, but remained silent on the matter as he jumped off the counter and approached her. They each took one lantern before journeying deeper into the staff quarters, nearing the kitchen, and therefore, the much needed sustenance.

Mr Malfoy walked slightly ahead of Miss Granger, and she didn't doubt that it was an act of chivalry, employed to protect her should anything grotesque or dangerous occur. A part of her appreciated the gesture, but another scolded herself internally. When it came down to the facts, Mr Malfoy was indeed a despicable man of gruesome inclinations, but in her current circumstances, Hermione was finding that she felt safe with the man. Despite his unfavourable profession, Hermione felt as though she was beginning to harbour tasteless sentiments toward the hitman – sentiments that she would never have entertained outside of her present circumstances.

But that was just it; her circumstances were hazardous, and she feared for her life. So why not indulge one's self in forbidden sentiments if it truly was her final days? The views appeared to be shared by a lady of much higher standing also.

Lady Sinclair evidently harboured desire for Mr Zabini, whether it be of the physical variety, or the emotional sort. Either way, it appeared that the dangerous situation was effecting the lady too. It helped Hermione dismiss most of her self-judgements in regards to her own feelings for Mr Malfoy. Although, Lady Sinclair and Mr Zabini seemed to possess a somewhat hostile relationship in conjunction with their shared desires for one another. Thankfully, Hermione experienced no such conflictions with Mr Malfoy. At most, she detested his choice of career, but appreciated his gallantry and respect toward her.

The recent scene of bitterness between Lady Sinclair and Mr Zabini entered her mind suddenly, the secretive whispers of Mr Zabini to the Lady piquing Hermione's suspicions.

"Mr Malfoy," Hermione addressed as they entered the massive kitchens.

"Draco," Mr Malfoy corrected, interrupting her without care. "Call me Draco."

Hermione blinked at the gentleman, blushing noticeably as he set his lantern on the main bench. The sir did not meet her gaze as he set to rummaging through the pantry for desired foods.

"Draco," Hermione said hesitantly, Mr Malfoy stilling at the sound of his first name in her sweet voice. The pause was brief, passing suddenly as he returned his attentions to gathering food. "Do you have any thoughts on the relationship between Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair?"

"If I did," Mr Malfoy responded, carrying a hunk of meat over to the kitchen bench, "would it matter?"

"No," Hermione said, approaching the bench. "I am merely curious, is all."

"Curiosity is a dangerous trait to possess, Miss Granger," Malfoy smirked, glancing at her from beneath his lashes.

"Perhaps," Hermione nodded once, watching as he began to slice the cooked, cured ham into thick cuts. Thankfully, as the ham had already been roasted, it would require no further preparation before it was edible. "Is it not noteworthy to you, Mr Mal – Draco?"

"You wish to learn of my opinion concerning the matter?" Mr Malfoy asked, his question clearly rhetorical. "I believe that my comrade has discovered affections within him in regards to Lady Sinclair. She too returns those feelings, but as they are worlds apart – so to speak – nothing shall come of it. Lady Sinclair values her status and wealth over her emotions, so once we leave this island, I do not doubt that they will never speak again."

"Mr Zabini will accept that, will he?"

"No," Malfoy smirked, glancing at her as she placed a stack of plates on the bench. "Mr Zabini is a determined man, and I would not be surprised if he continued to pursue her following our departure from this island. If I spoke openly, I might relay my suspicions that his appreciation for Lady Sinclair surpass that of physical attractions. Alas, it is clear that Lady Sinclair will not entertain anything further than their flirtations."

Hermione nodded marginally, a pensive expression etching onto her beautiful features as she retrieved a platter for the hunk of meat. Mr Malfoy continued to prepare the ham, but observed her intently as she gathered fruit from the pantry to enhance the meals.

"I am curious, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy began before Hermione interrupted him.

"Curiosity is a dangerous trait," Hermione smiled slightly, cutting up oranges, peaches and apples.

"Indeed it is," Malfoy grinned widely, his silver eyes glinting with amusement. "But I am a dangerous man, Miss Granger."

Hermione's smile fell from her lips as she was reminded of his true nature, recalling his choice of profession. Mr Malfoy observed her as she pressed her lips together tightly, still chopping away at the fruits.

"As I was saying," Mr Malfoy continued. "I am curious as to the reason for your inquiry regarding Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair."

"Merely to address a fleeting thought, Mr Malfoy." Hermione responded coolly.

"Whatever happened to 'Draco'?" Malfoy quirked his brow, serving up chunks of ham onto the plates.

Hermione didn't respond, but followed his lead in serving the sliced fruits. Mr Malfoy suspected the answer to his own question – in fact, both of his questions.

"I will not allow you to die on this island, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy advised as she glanced up at him in confusion. "That is the reason for your inquiry, is it not? In an indirect manner, you were attempting to ascertain my own intentions with yourself, no?"

"I do not follow your logic, sir."

"Considering that you are a woman of impressive intelligence, I find your claimed ignorance difficult to trust." Malfoy smirked, relishing in the rosiness of her flushed cheeks. "You wish to know of my own regard for you, Miss Granger, and if it is in accord with Mr Zabini's for Lady Sinclair. I assure you that it is."

Hermione's face burned with the crimson shade of the blood from various corpses scattered across the home. Her humiliation was clear, but the small smile dancing on her lips demonstrated her returned sentiments toward Mr Malfoy. Or, perhaps, that was merely the product of the numerous wines and brandies she had indulged in that morning alone.

"I appreciate the promise, sir," Hermione said after a brief pause. "To learn that you wish to protect me from harm is quite comforting, I assure you, and I am most grateful. Alas, it does not defeat the fear or concerns that I entertain."

"I would think you foolish if it did," Mr Malfoy smirked, clearing the bench of all ham juice with a cloth. "To place one's own life in the hands of another in such circumstances is risky at best. For all you know, Miss Granger, I could be the very killer behind this orchestration."

Hermione blinked as her gaze darted to his, finding that he made perfect sense in his statement. Any one of them could be the killer who had brought them to the island, including Mr Malfoy.

"Are you?"

"Would I tell you if I was?" Mr Malfoy smirked.

"I suppose not," Hermione frowned, regarding him with sudden suspicion.

"You may rest your fears, Miss Granger," Malfoy grinned wickedly, flashing perfectly white teeth at her. "I am a killer, yes. But I am not the killer behind this nuisance. The question is, ma'am, are you?"

"I am not," Hermione said, no traces of insult in her soft tone.

"I believe you, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy nodded, his grin fading into a smirk. "But perhaps that makes me the fool?"

"Maybe," Hermione smiled, sensing his light playfulness – a side of the gentleman that was rare in men those days. A side that she found rather delightful and refreshing.

Hermione continued to gaze at the man as he gathered the leftover scraps of bad ham and tossed them in the garbage. Her eyes followed him as he disappeared into the pantry, only to emerge a few moments after, carrying a bowl of strawberries. The rare and expensive fruit was ripe to the eyes, but evidently soon to wither and spoil.

Mr Malfoy approached her side of the bench, stopping a mere two inches from her suddenly tense body as he placed the bowl in front of her. For a moment, Hermione believed that he meant for her to serve up the delicious fruit, but when he picked up a particularly juicy strawberry and raised it to her parted lips, Hermione realised that he intended for only the two of them to enjoy said fruit.

It was all entirely improper, Hermione was well aware of that fact. But in truth, she found that in the privacy of the kitchens, away from watching eyes, she did not care.

Parting her lips further, Hermione kept her gaze locked with his stormy silver eyes as he slowly pushed the tip of the fruit into her mouth. Her lips plumped out as they clasped around the strawberry, their gazes connected, never tearing away. Slowly, she indecently made a seductive show of biting the fruit and swallowing the delicious flavour.

"How is it?" Malfoy asked huskily, eyes never straying from hers as he removed the unbitten half of the strawberry and tossed it onto the bench.

"Sweet," Hermione answered honestly, cheeks crimson.

At that, his silver gaze tore from hers, raking down her face to rest of her lips. Her pink tongue grazed over her plump lips to remove the lingering juices of the fruit before disappearing back into her warm mouth.

Hermione's breath hitched, catching in her throat as his hand came up and cupped her rosy cheek. The gentleman closed the distance between them, his penetrative gaze remaining fixed on her inviting lips. As his face neared hers, Hermione's eyelids fluttered shut, his nose grazing against her own. The warmth of his breath brushed against her lips, indicating the extremity of his proximity, but she did not pull away or deny him what he sought. For she, too, sought the kiss.

Breathlessly, Hermione sighed as his lips connected with hers ever so slightly, a mere whisper of the touch sending delightful shivers down her spine. She wished to open her eyes in order to see if his were open or not, but the strength to perform such an action had left her. Hermione was mere putty in his hands.

Grazes and light touches were all that ensued, the pair relishing in the utterly exquisite sensations that they caused. The brilliant feel of his thumb brushing over her cheek only increased the pleasantness of his parted lips caressing her own lightly. Suddenly, fireworks exploded in her head as his lips pressed against hers gently, neither moving, both appreciating the smooth texture of their lips mooshed together.

"Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy breathed against her lips, still connected. "I do not wish to offend you. I would like to clarify that I do not think of you as a particular kind of woman, for I recognise that you are not."

Gradually, Hermione's eyes opened, gazing from beneath her lashes to his closed eyes.

"The troubling thing, Mr Malfoy, is that you know nothing about me or what I am." Hermione whispered, her clouded brown eyes hooded with lust.

"I know what you are," Mr Malfoy countered, opening his eyes to meet her gaze, removing his lips from hers. "In this very moment, you are a vulnerable and distressed woman, and I am a man taking advantage of that."

"I assure you sir," Hermione said, rather breathlessly, "I am not a woman in distress."

"Aren't you?" Mr Malfoy asked rhetorically, his hand still cupping her flaming cheek gently. "Your strength of character astounds me, Miss Granger, but I am a perceptive man. I see the fear in your eyes, and I can taste the emotion surrounding you. I appreciate that you wish to remain unaffected by your fears, but I must relay that, given the circumstances, I would not think any less of you if you felt the need to express such emotions."

"Are you asking me to cry, sir?" Hermione frowned up at him.

"No," Mr Malfoy smirked. "I am offering myself to you as a confidant should you require one."

"I do not require a confidant, thank you." Hermione retorted, a little bristled for reasons unknown to herself.

"I disagree," Mr Malfoy smiled, moving his hand from her cheek to the centre of her back. "Respectfully, of course."

Hermione gasped, for he suddenly pulled her body against his, her face now pressed against his chest as she blinked in surprise. Both of his muscular arms locked around her body, embracing her in a comforting manner, allowing her to crack.

At first, Hermione experienced the instinctual urge to detach herself from the gentleman, but after a brief pause, she felt the comfort in the gesture. It wasn't until then that she realised that she was in need of such pacification. Out of nowhere, Hermione felt previously caged emotion break free, dangerously bubbling up inside of her. Her breathing began to change, increasing in speed, hilting and shaking, her hands gripping onto the shirt of the gentleman.

Suddenly overcome with sorrow and fear, Hermione wept silently, hands clutching onto the white shirt of her gentlemanly escort. Mr Malfoy embraced her shaky body against his, allowing her tears to dampen his shirt as she sobbed wretchedly. He had expected an outburst from the resilient woman, for the strain of their current circumstances could be seen in her pained eyes throughout the course of the day.

Flickering lantern flames danced over the two, providing eerie shadows to the walls and floors, accompanied by the horrid sounds of Miss Granger's tears.

"I am frightened, sir," Hermione wept into his chest shakily. "I am so very frightened. I pretend to be brave in these circumstances, but I fear that I will not leave this island."

"You will." Mr Malfoy replied strictly. "You will leave this island, for I will ensure it."

"I truly wish that your promises were enough to soothe my fears, sir," Hermione said through her tears, barely able to croak out the words.

"I do not require you to have faith in my promises, Miss Granger." Mr Malfoy responded. "I have enough faith in my own skills for the two of us."

"Why, sir?" Hermione hiccupped, resting her forehead against his damp shirt. "Why would you assist me when your own life is at stake?"

A pause occurred, in which neither spoke, and only the shaky breaths and tears of Hermione could be heard.

"Perhaps I have never seen legs as pretty as yours, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy said after a moment, the teasing evident in his tone. Hermione could almost hear the smirk on his lips as he spoke. "Perhaps … I have found myself growing rather fond of you, Miss Granger, in addition to your legs of course."

"That is a wholly indecent comment, sir," Hermione whispered, pulling from his hold slightly. There was no malice or offense in her tone, however. She was merely attempting to regain control of the situation, as well as her emotions.

"I am a wholly indecent man," Malfoy smirked, observing that her tears were subsiding.

"I have come to realise that fact," Hermione said as she gave him a watery smile.

Their gazes lingered for a moment, Hermione at a loss for the next course of action. A part of her wished to kiss the gentleman again, but that was entirely inappropriate, and she daren't entertain such acts a second time. At least the first kiss she could dismiss as behaviour stemming from fear and distress, but if there was a second, there were no justifications she could apply to the matter.

Deciding on distraction, Hermione snivelled and wiped at her damp cheeks, wrenching her gaze away from his. She straightened out her modest dress, despite it not displaying any creases or dishevelment. Once she had fully composed herself, Hermione pushed herself away from the bench, very aware of Mr Malfoy's calculative stare burning into her face.

"I should prepare the tea," Hermione said, mustering up as much indifference as possible. It wasn't much, and even so, Mr Malfoy was clearly perceptive, able to see right through her transparent charade.

"I will prepare the tea," Mr Malfoy asserted.

Hermione watched as he strode off toward the stove, setting to lighting the flames before filling the big black kettle with tap water. Feeling rather useless, Hermione decided to retrieve the milk from the refrigerator in order to assist.

As the large cool room sat by the pantry, Hermione didn't declare her actions and strolled over to it quietly. Mr Malfoy's back was to her as he watched the kettle boil, a strangeness to the silence now engulfing them. Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on the peculiar shift in atmosphere, but attempted to dismiss it mentally. There were far more important issues to concern herself with than a sudden transformation in Mr Malfoy's aura.

Clasping her fingers around the metal handle of the refrigerator, Hermione yanked the door open forcefully, employing much strength due to the weight of the door. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness within the large refrigerator, her gaze scanning the area to locate the milk. After a moment, she stepped inside, raking her eyes over the shelves as she journeyed deeper inside.

A black cloth concealed something large and lumpy on the floor, catching Hermione's attention instantly. Not a second had passed before her suspicions piqued, for she had a very good idea as to what lay beneath the concealment of the bedsheet.

Swallowing thickly, Hermione approached the bulky object, reaching out her hand as she grasped onto the sheet. Suddenly, she yanked the sheet away, tossing it behind her as she was met with her suspicions come to realities.

The butler, Mr Longbottom, sat up against the wall of the refrigerator, as dead as his wife who still lay at the bottom of the staircase in the central foyer. Exhaling shakily, Hermione stared at the corpse, horror beginning to shine in her watery brown eyes.

Mr Longbottom may not have been the most gruesome corpse she had witnessed during her stay at Durrem Island, but it was sickening to see regardless. His bloodied and swollen lips had been sewn together amateurishly, his shirt was torn open to reveal a word carved into his chest, and a knife protruded from his throat.

"Mr Malfoy," Hermione croaked, swaying on the spot as she gazed at the lifeless body. "Will you please come here, sir?"

The footsteps of the gentleman could be heard nearing the cool room in which she occupied. After a mere second or two, although it felt like an eternity to Hermione, Mr Malfoy joined her in the massive refrigerator.

"That explains his absence," Mr Malfoy said calmly, standing behind the stiff woman.

"Liar," Hermione whispered, reading the word carved coarsely onto the corpse's chest.

"I believe we had already learned of his crime," Mr Malfoy shrugged, the rustle of his shirt sounding out. "It is no surprise, really. He lied to protect his wife from the hangman."

Hermione remained silent as she gazed vacantly at the corpse, tears falling from her eyes, experiencing a great big bout of pity for the butler.

"Ah," Mr Malfoy said, brushing by Hermione. "There it is."

Hermione gaped as Mr Malfoy stepped over the corpse to retrieve the glass bottle of milk. He turned to face her, but only offered her a small smirk.

"Shall we?" He asked before he guided her out of the cooling room.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

The doors to the drawing room opened, revealing Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger, both of whom were carrying platters filled with plates and teas. Octavia felt a wave of relief at the sight of the juicy cuts of ham accompanied by pieces of fruit, for she had not eaten that day at all, – much like the others – therefore found that she was dangerously close to nausea from hunger.

Ginevra rose from her seat and neared the two newcomers, closing the door firmly behind them. The pair approached the central coffee table, placing down the trays, Miss Granger looking rather pale. Although, most of the women displayed paleness, given the fact that there were four bodies scattered around the manor house. Little did they know that there were actually five corpses scattered around the manor house.

"No walnut bread?" Octavia quirked her brow, her gaze scanning the trays of dinner plates.

"Unfortunately not," Mr Malfoy replied, seemingly rather put out by the fact as well. "Although we did come across another corpse."

"No," Ginevra breathed, hand on her heart in a demonstration of shock.

"Who, might I ask, is the unfortunate soul this time?" Zabini asked between puffs of his cigarette, reclining casually on the plush sofa alone. But as there was only one person absent from the room, the answer was crystal clear to all.

"Mr Longbottom," Hermione whispered, speaking the name that lingered in everyone's thoughts.

"The butler's lips were sewn together," Mr Malfoy explained, apparently bored of the topic already. As he spoke, he retrieved a plate of ham and fruits before seating himself on an armchair. "Stabbed in the throat, it seems, and 'liar' carved into his chest. It was all very amateurish."

"The two liars," Potter said. "Mr Longbottom, covering up the crime of his wife, and Mr Black, the man who lied on the stand against Lord Parkinson."

"How can that be, sir?" Octavia frowned, pushing herself from the bar to gather a plate of lunch for herself. "How can Mr Longbottom be dead?"

"Well, Lady Sinclair," Mr Malfoy patronised, "I believe Mr Longbottom was taken off guard whilst in the kitchens, stabbed in the throat and left in the cool room."

"Yes, thank you, sir," Octavia sniffed, seating herself beside Mr Zabini as she set to cutting her ham. "My inquiry is in relation to the culprit. As we have all been together, I find the matter rather curious."

"Ah," Mr Zabini interjected, clouded in cigarette smoke, "but we were not all together, were we, Lady Sinclair?"

"Whatever do you mean, sir?" Octavia drawled, an iciness to her tone.

Hermione observed the pair as she seated herself at the chess table, sensing great hostility between them. Predominantly from Lady Sinclair, however. Dismissing the matter, Hermione began to eat her meal, the thought of food churning her stomach, but she was logical enough to realise that she required the strength provided by the nourishment.

"Lady Parkinson," Mr Zabini explained as though it was obvious. "The lady was left to her own devices once yourself and Mr Potter departed her bedroom. That allowed the lady ample time to perform such an attack. Or, perhaps yourself and Mr Potter are behind it, for you were both absent for an estimated twenty minutes. It isn't much, but enough time to perform the deed. Shortly after your return, you and I journeyed to Lady Parkinson's bedroom where we found her dead. That could incriminate either one of us, My Lady, or both. Additionally, Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger have only just returned, after thirty minutes in the kitchens, so it would be reasonable to suspect either one, if not both, to be guilty in the murder of Mr Longbottom."

"Are you accusing all of us, Mr Zabini?" Ginevra asked coolly, ignoring the meals altogether.

"I am merely arguing that, at several intervals, we have not been in the same room together." Mr Zabini smirked. "Mr Wilby and yourself, Miss Weasley, are the only two to have remained in the drawing room since Mrs Longbottom's body was discovered this morning."

"Let us address the theory of Lady Parkinson," Potter said, intoxication evident in his drowsy expression. "After Lady Sinclair and I left Lady Parkinson in her bedroom, she could have gone to enact her revenge on the butler. Her evident anger and distress would be cause for a solid motive to commit such a crime. Furthermore, Mr Longbottom had journeyed down to the kitchens to prepare our meals before we discovered Lady Parkinson's body, so the timeline corresponds."

"And after she took her revenge," Ginevra continued, seemingly agreeing with the police officer, "she then committed suicide to escape the island as well as her hangable offense. Subsequently, Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair discovered her body–"

"Or," Wilby slurred, butting in rudely. "Mr Zabini did it when Lady Sinclair fainted. You were both up there for a while."

"Lady Parkinson would not respond to my arrival," Octavia explained, her plate already half cleared. "We were in the corridor waiting for a response to our knocks, but we quickly discovered the cause of her silence. That is the reason for our delay."

"According to you," Potter countered, his green eyes clouded over with intoxication. "What if you slipped the arsenic into her drink? Then you and Mr Zabini could have murdered Mr Longbottom in the kitchens before setting up Lady Parkinson's corpse to look like a suicide. When Mr Zabini called out for help, you were only pretending to have fainted."

"It is a plausible theory," Mr Malfoy nodded, his plate entirely cleared as he placed it on a side table. "That is, if there is a solid motive that can justify the claims, of course."

"Mr Zabini is a hitman, so he could have been hired by Lady Sinclair." Potter shrugged.

"Yes, very good, Mr Potter," Octavia rolled her eyes in an unladylike fashion. "However, that does not offer a motive of my own."

"Jealousy?" Wilby suggested weakly. "Maybe she is richer than you are? Parkinson was betrothed to your brother, wasn't she?"

"Indeed she was," Octavia nodded, finishing off the rest of her lunch.

"The laws mean that male heirs inherit the fortunes of their estates," Wilby hiccupped, looking a little wobbly on his armchair. "Which means that Lady Parkinson would have inherited the wealth of your parents through her marriage to your brother, while you only got a dowry and, hopefully, a wealthy husband. If you didn't get the husband with money, you would be poor and live off your brother, if he chose to support you. Your friend, Lady Parkinson, would have gotten money that you believed to be yours, Lady Sinclair."

"That would give me motive in regards to Lady Parkinson's death," Octavia agreed, placing her empty plate on the side table. "However, as my brother has passed, I inherit the full estate, so what cause would I have to murder my friend in the present time? If Oscar had not passed, I would have married into a wealthy family without doubt, and even on the slim chance that I didn't, Oscar would most certainly have supported me financially. Additionally, if I truly was the murderer behind this dreadful situation, what reason would I have to target the rest of you?"

"I'll get back to you on that, Lady Sinclair," Wibly grumbled, his brows furrowing as he thought.

"Please do," Octavia sighed, mocking his tedious behaviour.

Silence fell over the assortment of peoples, some relaying suspicion with shifty glances, and others perfectly at ease. Those at ease were, of course, Mr Zabini and Mr Malfoy, accompanied by Lady Sinclair who appeared to be quite bored. Sitting in the drawing room for an entire day, discussing never-ending streams of suspicions seemed to be tiring her considerably.

Mr Wilby grunted as he managed to push himself from the armchair, staggering a little before he regained his balance. Octavia watched the drunkard with palpable judgement and disdain as he lurched and stumbled over to the bar. The repulsive red-head slammed his empty bottle of scotch whiskey down on the bar, declaring to all persons in the room with the gesture that he had finished the beverage.

Hermione sighed in distaste before finishing off the last three pieces of ham on her plate, most occupants of the room suddenly bored of Mr Wilby's behaviour. Octavia, however, continued to observe him with narrowed eyes and puckered lips, her sentiments toward the fellow as clear as day. The wretched man stumbled around the bar, making far too much noise as he riffled through the stash of alcohol in search of another bottle to consume himself. It seemed that he had a particular taste for scotch whiskey, for he definitely made a show to searching for one through the wines and brandies.

"Mr Wilby," Octavia drawled pompously. "Perhaps you have indulged in enough whiskey for one day."

The sound of glasses clinking together and liquid swoshing was the lady's only response, Mr Wilby evidently choosing to ignore her. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the drunkard would have preferred to respond crudely to the lady, but the last time he had done so, he had been punched to the ground by Mr Zabini. Although, whether the same fate would meet him now was unknown, for Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair didn't appear to have smoothed over their prevalent hostility toward one another.

However, it seemed that Lady Sinclair desired Mr Zabini's concurrence, for she side glanced at the stoic man, apparently awaiting his vocal support. Mr Zabini did no such thing, and only lit himself another cigarette as he relaxed beside the snooty woman on the lush couch. A haughty expression graced the pretty features of Lady Sinclair, but Hermione suspected that said expression was merely the concealment of her disappointment.

The rattle of the bottles ceased when Mr Wilby procured his desired beverage, pointedly slamming it down on the bar, facing the others. His cloudy blue eyes fixed on Lady Sinclair, the pair entering into a silent stare of sorts as he uncorked the bottle deliberately.

"If you do not perish on this island at the hands of the killer, Mr Wilby," Octavia drawled coolly, "I am certain that the liquor will see to your demise."

"Either way, ma'am, I'll die a happy man," Wilby gruffed, firmly gripping the bottle. "For it would mean that I am lucky enough to not suffer your company any longer."

Hermione's brows raised as her gaze darted to Mr Zabini, but was met with no sight of chivalry. Instead, the gentleman brought the butt of his cigarette to his lips, inhaling long and deep as his stare remained on the wall.

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you, sir," Octavia smiled falsely, but a shimmer of disappointment remained in her hazel eyes.

Hermione, as despicable as it was, had to agree with Lady Sinclair. The man was vile, and by extension, as was his company. The drunkard seemed to be pleased that no acts of violence befell him at the hands of Mr Zabini for insulting the woman, so made a theatrical show of gulping down the whiskey from the bottle, his gaze locked with Lady Sinclair's as he did so.

Curiously, after Wilby had taken his third gulp, he began to sway on the spot, dropping the bottle as he groaned in discomfort. The bottle crashed onto the bar, rolled off and thudded onto the carpeted floor where it spilled to create a mess and putrid stench. Suddenly, Mr Wilby fell forward onto the bar, great big expulsions of vomit spitting out of his mouth.

"Good grief, sir!" Octavia gasped, absolutely horrified. "Have you no shame?!"

"This is most upsetting, Mr Wilby," Hermione agreed, rising from her chair. "Are you not able to control yourself?"

The incredulity of the women, however, quickly gave way to sheer terror and shock. For Wilby no longer retched up the contents of his stomach, but now violently vomited up bright red blood. His face had quickly turned purple, for the man could not breathe through the constant gags and heaves, the bar now crimson in colour. Hermione truly never thought that so much blood could be within a single person.

Immediately, Mr Malfoy pushed himself from his armchair, striding over to Hermione before he spun her around, forcing her gaze to connect with the other side of the room.

"It is best if you do not watch," Mr Malfoy whispered, his voice almost drowned out by the incessant retches of the dying man.

Mr Zabini had also quickly risen from his seat, but approached Mr Wilby by the bar at a leisurely pace. Once he reached the drunk, Zabini grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and turned him around to face him. Zabini then forced the man's eyelids to open, ignoring the sputters of blood that splattered onto his shirt and face, his own gaze assessing the pupils of the dying man.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of horror, but was in fact only a single minute, Mr Wilby coughed one last time before crumbling to the floor in a heap. Mr Zabini knelt by his limp corpse, peeling apart his mouth to inspect inside. His mysterious suspicions piqued from the observation, and the gentleman quickly stood and sauntered around the bar.

In shock, Octavia breathed shakily, her hand clasped over her parted lips as she watched Mr Zabini retrieve the bottle of whiskey from the floor. Mr Zabini inspected the bottle for a moment before he sniffed the rim discreetly, humming to himself as he stood.

"Cyanide," Zabini said, placing the bottle on the bar. "He was poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Octavia breathed, feeling the suspicious eyes of Potter and Ginevra burning into her pale face. "But that was a fresh bottle, sir. I saw him open it with my very own eyes. How could the liquor have been poisoned if it was unopened?"

"A syringe," Mr Malfoy answered automatically, standing with the weeping Miss Granger. The gentleman was not exactly comforting the woman, but seemed to have taken a protective stance beside her. "Or the poison could have been spread onto the rim of the bottle. There are ways."

"You seem to know a lot about it, Mr Malfoy," Potter said.

"Has your intellect failed you already, Mr Potter?" Malfoy smirked. "I was under the impression that you were aware of my profession, therefore the skills I would require to conduct myself accordingly."

Potter narrowed his eyes at the man, but argued his fleeting thought no further. Instead, he turned his suspicions elsewhere.

"Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair," Potter addressed, the tanned man lighting a cigarette as he gazed coolly at the distressed Octavia. "You both seemed to have predicted Mr Wilby's untimely passing, if my memory serves me. Only today, Mr Zabini, you responded to his claim of innocence with the mysterious words, 'time will tell', am I correct?"

"Yes," Mr Zabini said, his gaze unwavering from Octavia as she wiped at her damp cheeks. "There is no mystery to be unravelled there, Mr Potter. Mr Wilby claimed to be the innocent among us, and I merely responded that the truth of the matter will be revealed in time, as it has with all deceased people thus far."

"And Lady Sinclair?" Potter gruffed, fixing his spectacles. "You threatened Mr Wilby only minutes before his death. If I remember correctly, you claimed that the alcohol would be the death of him, did you not?"

"I did," Octavia croaked, wiping at her nose with a handkerchief. "It is a reasonable assessment to make, sir, given his evident reliance on liquor. I did not mean to suggest that the very bottle he retrieved would be his undoing, Mr Potter."

"I do not mean to interrupt your investigations," Ginevra interrupted. "But may I request that we relocate to another room? I do detest remaining in the presence of a corpse."

*.*.*

Mr Potter sat in the corner of the parlour room, speaking in hushed tones Miss Weasley. The pair had very little in common, except they seemed to now share suspicions in the direction of Lady Sinclair. Over this, it was clear they related, and evidently wished to remain as far from the others as possible to discuss said suspicions and theories.

Mr Malfoy sat at the poker table with Miss Granger and Lady Sinclair, the three indulging in respective beverages of the alcoholic variety. Hermione truly harboured a concern that her stay at Durrem island would cause her to sustain an addiction to the liquor, should she survive. Although, the chances of leaving the island were decreasing by the hour, she realised, for bodies were piling up around home at a terribly frightening rate. Only three days at Durrem island, and they had six corpses to show for it. It was most concerning.

"I wonder what is taking so long," Octavia sighed wearily, drumming her fingers anxiously on the felt table top.

"Mr Zabini will return," Mr Malfoy assured, lighting a cigarette. "He has only been absent for a few minutes, Lady Sinclair."

Hermione glanced at the grandfather clock across the room, realising that Mr Malfoy was correct in his time estimation. Mr Zabini had only departed the room four minutes ago to search Mr Wilby's bedroom. As the drunkard had been killed discreetly in front of all other surviving guests, there were no words to describe his offenses at the scene of the crime. Hermione had been the very one to suggest that a clue may lie within the deceased's possessions upstairs – a suggestion that Mr Zabini and Mr Malfoy concurred with.

However, as Mr Potter was hardly the trustworthy – or gentlemanly – sort, Mr Malfoy had remained with the ladies whilst Mr Zabini ventured upstairs to search for any clues. It was clear to Hermione that while Lady Sinclair was hardly on speaking terms with the European gentleman, she evidently felt great anxiety at his absence. Anything could happen to any one of them, especially if they wandered around the home alone.

The door to the parlour room swung open, in stepping the very gentleman in question, smoking a cigarette as per usual. The stoic man shook his head to indicate that he had found no clues as he closed the door behind him. Mr Potter and Miss Weasley were visibly dejected at the lack of evidence, and quickly returned to their secretive whispers.

With his shirt and neck still featuring the splatters of blood from Mr Wilby, Mr Zabini joined the poker table, seating himself in the only chair available – across from Lady Sinclair. While the lady had noticeably calmed at the man's return, she had forced an expression of complete indifference onto her haughty features, gazing vacantly at her perfectly manicured nails instead. Hermione almost laughed at the blatant denial of her own sentiments regarding Mr Zabini, purely out of stubbornness. In circumstances such as these, stubbornness was a trait that could not be afforded, for one truly did not know when their life was at an end.

"You found nothing, sir?" Hermione asked, pouring the tanned gentleman a tumbler of brandy.

"Nothing I wish to share with them," Zabini smirked, gesturing his head in the direction of the whispering duo in the corner.

"Whyever not, sir?" Lady Sinclair whispered, meeting his black eyes.

"Mr Potter is precarious at best," Mr Zabini explained, his smirk disappearing as his gaze connected with Octavia's. "I imagine that if he was to learn of the evidence I discovered, his irritation would reach perilous boundaries. This way, we are able to exercise control in the situation."

Mr Zabini discreetly slipped a folded photograph from his trouser pocket and handed it to Mr Malfoy, neither of the two huddled in the corner noticing the exchange. Exercising the same level of subtlety, Mr Malfoy unfolded the photograph and assessed it with hard silver eyes. A moment passed before he placed it on the table beside the deck of cards, thereby displaying it to the two women.

The photograph showed a crushed automobile on the side of a country road, two children and a woman inside, all three evidently dead from choking on their own blood. The crimson liquid pooled around the tangled bodies, whilst a man lay on the road, legs broken, and unconscious.

That man was Mr Potter.

"Oh my," Hermione breathed, horror contorting at her features.

Octavia simply appeared as though she would vomit at any given moment. Instead, she swallowed a hefty gulp of her wine.

"That is Mr Potter, is it not?" Octavia breathed, indicating to the man in the photograph.

"It is," Mr Malfoy nodded once. "It appears that Mr Wilby was the man who crashed into Mr Potter's vehicle that night."

"Mr Wilby could have been the Parkinson's chauffer," Mr Zabini concurred. "I would not be surprised if he drove whilst intoxicated that day, and likely, many nights to follow."

"So Mr Wilby was the man who killed Mr Potter's family," Hermione nodded slowly, piecing everything together. "That could only mean that Mr Potter sentenced an innocent man to hang. Lord Parkinson was found guilty of murdering his wife, which he did not do, for the Longbottoms had killed her. Mr Potter ensured that the Lord met his death by hanging only because he thought that the Lord had killed his family. Mr Potter believed that Lord Parkinson was the man driving the automobile that night. But Lord Parkinson did not commit any crime, and died as an innocent man."

"Which would make Mr Potter incredibly guilty of murder," Mr Malfoy concluded. "He pursued the wrong man and caused him to die for crimes that he did not commit. Mr Potter is the reason for the Lord's death, despite the Lord being innocent on all accounts."

"Where did you discover the photograph, sir?" Octavia asked quietly.

"It was on his pillow," Mr Zabini informed in a quiet tone. "And on the bed were bottles of whiskey, untouched. They were placed accordingly to spell 'killer'. I removed them before I returned."

"We were told to not interfere with the crime scenes," Hermione frowned, unable to tear her eyes away from the horrific image in the photograph.

"Should Mr Potter decide to search Mr Wilby's bedroom himself," Mr Malfoy said as he took the photograph and stuffed it into his trouser pocket, "it would be best if there were no clues left for him to discover."

"Precisely." Mr Zabini said before taking a lengthy inhale of his cigarette, his dark gaze fixed on Octavia, entirely unwavering.

"How did you know?" Hermione whispered, addressing Mr Zabini as he kept his stare on the lady across from him. "You were certain that Mr Wilby was not the innocent, were you not?"

"As I have mentioned," Mr Zabini said. "I possess an adept ability to see beneath the facades of others. My perceptiveness pierces through to one's soul, and Mr Wilby's was guilty.

"None of us are innocent," Octavia breathed shakily. "We are all guilty of our accused crimes, so the innocent must have been Pansy. However, as Pansy is dead – perished at her own hand – we have lost the game."

"Indeed we have," Mr Malfoy nodded once, but didn't seem at all downcast at the realisation.

"Now what?" Hermione asked, her brows furrowed in concern. "We wait to die?"

"I have no such plans, Miss Granger," Malfoy countered.

"What are you saying, Mr Malfoy?"

"I intend to get us off this island." Malfoy said, pausing to sip at his brandy. "Tomorrow."

A fleeting silence fell over the occupants of the poker table, Hermione raising her brows in total shock. There was no way off the island, they all knew that. There was no boat to sail away in, there were no roads to venture down, and the mainland was miles away.

"What do you propose, sir?" Octavia asked, the frown at her brows indicating that she shared Hermione's bafflement.

"I propose," Mr Malfoy began, pausing to puff at his cigarette, "that we wait until the storm passes, which I would estimate to be gone by morning, or perhaps, at most, in a day. When it clears, I will swim to the mainland and retrieve aid."

"Swim to the mainland?" Hermione repeated incredulously. "Sir, I do not intend to offend you or your skills, but that journey is at least ten miles."

"It is eight miles, and I am able to swim a mile in under fifteen minutes, Miss Granger." Mr Malfoy smirked. "Depending on the temperament of the waters, I should return to the island within the day if I begin at sunrise."

"Might I remind you that we are not discussing lakes or lagoons, sir?" Hermione argued. "You expect to swim across sea water in the winter?"

"I do." Mr Malfoy nodded, no fear or apprehension betraying him via his stoic expression. "It would hardly be the first time I have accomplished such a task."

"Is this another precise skill of yours, Mr Malfoy?" Hermione quirked her brow, referring to his unfavourable profession.

"Indeed it is," Malfoy smirked, maintaining her stare as he smoked his cigarette.

"I wonder," Octavia began, finishing off the last of her wine. "How does one enter such a profession? I doubt that it consists of an advertisement in the paper."

Mr Zabini smirked fleetingly before he composed himself, stubbornly maintaining his hostility toward the lady he so clearly fancied. However, the tanned gentleman still retrieved her empty wineglass once she set it down, and filled it with the contents of the bottle on the table. He didn't meet her gaze as she thanked him, but pretended to have not heard her expressed gratitude at all.

"It is a lengthy and dreary tale, ma'am," Mr Malfoy replied, butting out his cigarette on the expensive felt of the table, despite the ashtray placed on a table nearby.

"I believe we have the time to hear such a tale," Hermione countered, sipping at her wine.

"I suppose you are correct," Malfoy smirked, filling his and Mr Zabini's tumblers with brandy. "Where shall I start?"

"From the very beginning," Octavia said, evidently eager for the gossip, both hands clasping onto the full wineglass.

"Well," Mr Malfoy sighed, reclining in his chair casually. "Firstly, I should clarify that I have no judgements or ill wills in regards to whores."

Instantly, the brows of Octavia and Hermione shot up, the tale beginning with a sentence that neither had expected.

"In fact," Mr Malfoy smirked, gripping his tumbler loosely, "they have been companions of mine for the majority of my twenty-five years. My mother was a whore, and I was conceived – along with three others – to men of unknown identities."

"You do not know your father?" Octavia gasped, sympathy glinting in her eyes, accompanied by gossiping thirst.

"I do not, nor do I care to," Mr Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly. "My mother continued in her position, therefore I was raised in a busy London brothel. When I was eight years old, I met Mr Zabini on the streets."

"I had gotten myself into a spot of trouble with the law," Mr Zabini smirked.

"What sort of trouble?" Octavia inquired, not meeting his gaze to maintain her haughtiness toward him.

"Robbery, as it happens," Mr Malfoy replied. "Mr Zabini had burgled a wealthy man on the streets, and had almost gotten away with it too."

"Sir," Octavia gasped, meeting Zabini's cool stare. "What gives you the right to steal from those who have earned their wealth?"

"Perhaps the fact that I was without a home, family or income?" Zabini retorted, his eyes darkening dangerously. "Or, perhaps for the simple reason that I was hungry, My Lady."

"Oh, pardon me," Octavia scoffed delicately. "And here I was under the evidently false impression that there are opportunities of employment in the city of London. How silly of me."

"You truly are the most naïve woman I have ever encountered, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini claimed, his tone low and dangerous.

"A matter of opinion," Octavia sniffed snootily. "An opinion I do not hold in high esteem."

Mr Zabini inhaled from the butt of his cigarette slowly, dangerously dark eyes fixed on the snob across from him. The intensity of their shared bitterness was felt even by Hermione, who found herself fearing that Mr Zabini may strike the Lady at the table. Of course, he did not, but the sheer danger that radiated from the man had sparked that fear regardless.

"Mr Malfoy," Hermione said, shattering the thick silence that had fallen over them. "Please continue."

Mr Malfoy met her stare, having been regarding Lady Sinclair with absolute disdain. He nodded once and sipped at his tumbler before adhering to Hermione's request.

"Mr Zabini, as I mentioned, had almost gotten free of capture for the crime," Mr Malfoy continued, his tone harsher than before. "I was out on the street, in front of the brothel that I called my home. A customer was leaving, saying his goodbyes to me when we saw Mr Zabini running toward us. There were no police officers chasing him, but the customer I was with was a policeman. He was immediately suspicious, so he tackled and restrained Mr Zabini."

Mr Zabini lit himself another cigarette as Mr Malfoy relayed the tale, but didn't seem too interested. In fact, he appeared to be attempting to intimidate Lady Sinclair with his intense stare, but the woman dared not meet his eyes.

"As the police officer was a regular of the brothel, and my mother was his favourite, I was able to persuade him to release Mr Zabini," Mr Malfoy explained. "I do not know why I felt the need to interfere, but I did and the two of us became inseparable following that day. It was only two weeks before Mr Zabini was invited to live at the brothel with us, for he was without a home, as mentioned."

"A year afterwards," Mr Zabini said, continuing the tale as he stared directly at Octavia. "A client became aggressive toward Mr Malfoy's mother. We were both aged nine when it happened, but despite our youth, we dealt with the situation effectively."

"What did you do, sir?" Octavia frowned, keeping her eyes averted from his stare.

"We killed him," Mr Zabini said coolly. "Accidently, of course. We each assaulted his skull with candlesticks. He never woke up."

"The madam of the establishment," Mr Malfoy explained, "saw to the situation, and ensured that the body was removed from the brothel. The police officer who favoured my mother was contacted, and he assisted in concealing the matter."

"We were then offered employment at the brothel as security enforcers," Mr Zabini continued, ignoring the fact that Lady Sinclair's wineglass was empty. "By the time we each aged to fifteen, many customers had asked for our assistance in private matters."

"Private matters, sir?" Hermione interjected.

"A variety of tasks," Mr Malfoy nodded. "Collecting owed money from gamblers, accompanying clients to dishonest appointments, and the sort. However, our tasks took a turn when the police officer presented us with an offer."

"He was unable to gather enough evidence to convict a man of murder," Mr Zabini explained. "But the man had killed his wife and children on a farm, and had blamed it on thieves. He only managed to escape the hangman by coercing his mistress to provide him with a false alibi."

"You were to kill the man," Hermione said.

"Yes." Mr Malfoy agreed. "We accepted the offer, performed the task, and received our payments. Months had passed before another police officer was referred to us, and he extended a similar proposal."

"Eventually," Mr Zabini continued, "we found that several offers a month were being extended to us, and the profession we entered began to pay handsomely, due to our natural talents. We worked as a team, and were always sure to have alibis prepared in case an honest cop decided to investigate us."

"Our profession and discreetness soon leaked into the aristocracy," Mr Malfoy said, side glancing at the stiff Octavia. "We had surpassed small targets, and were assigned to politicians, aristocrats, servants, and eventually, overseas assignments of the same variety."

"Servants?" Octavia frowned, meeting the cool stare of Mr Zabini. "For what reason, sir?"

"The reasons depend on the servant," Mr Zabini said coldly. "Some had threatened to speak out on scandals, others were simply privy to information that could incriminate Lords and Dukes, and others had simply claimed to be with child from indecent affairs."

"With child?" Hermione breathed. "You mean to suggest that … you have ended the life of a woman? A pregnant woman, no less?"

"Allegedly pregnant," Mr Malfoy corrected.

"Just when I thought I could not possibly be anymore repulsed by you," Octavia said shakily, staring Mr Zabini dead in the eye, "you surprise me again, sir."

"You think your kind are so innocent and pure, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini smirked cruelly. "Yet, if that were the case, how is it that I am acquainted with your father?"

"I beg your pardon?" Octavia gasped, utterly offended by the claim.

"On the train, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini explained, "was not the first time I have seen you. It was the first time we have met, yes, but not the first time I have laid eyes on you."

"What are you saying, sir?" Hermione frowned, clearly uncomfortable.

"I have had business with your father," Mr Zabini said, ignoring Hermione as he stared at the aghast Octavia. "I saw you on the grounds of your estate when Mr Malfoy and I were conversing with your father, but of course you did not so much as glance in my direction. Why would you, Lady Sinclair? I am but a mere peasant, am I not?"

"What business would you have with my father, Mr Zabini?" Octavia drawled, but her voice shook noticeably.

"The footman who saved your life in the lake, Lady Sinclair," Mr Malfoy smirked, seemingly a part of the mysterious affair. "When did you last see him?"

"When I expressed my gratitude," Octavia breathed, her eyes widening as realisation dawned on her. "The day after the dreadful event occurred."

"Pardon me, but I am at a loss regarding your implications," Hermione butted in. "For what reason would Lord Sinclair wish to remove a footman? A footman who had saved his daughter's life, no less?"

"That, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy smirked, "is a very good question."

Hermione raised her brows, no closer to the answer she sought as she glanced at Octavia. The lady had paled to impossible measures, her big watery eyes glued to the dark gaze of Mr Zabini. The lady appeared to be beyond a state of shock, her bosom rising and falling shakily, her hands trembling noticeably.

"Forgive me," Octavia whispered, rising slowly from her chair. "I believe I have endured enough excitement for one day. I must retire for the night."

Mr Zabini followed her lead, rising from his chair as he butted out his cigarette on the felt table. "I will see you to your boudoir, Lady Sinclair."

"You will do no such thing, sir," Octavia rasped, on the verge of either fainting or sobbing. "In fact, I would be most grateful if you maintained your distance from me, Mr Zabini. Indefinitely."

Mr Zabini regarded her cruelly for a moment, his dark eyes hardening as he clenched his jaw. After a moment, he shrugged nonchalantly, as though the request made no difference to him whatsoever. But Hermione could see a glimmer of disappointment in his dark eyes, the gentleman evidently displeased by the lady's request. Mr Malfoy stood, silently taking the position of chaperone as Mr Zabini seated himself, aggressively pouring himself another serving of brandy.

"I will escort you, Lady Sinclair," Mr Malfoy said, although didn't appear too excited about the chivalrous task. "It is not safe for a woman to wander the corridors alone."

"May I join you?" Hermione asked, but stood from her seat before receiving a response. "I must concur with Lady Sinclair – the day has been most tiring, and I too would prefer to retire for the night."

"Of course, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy nodded once, a small smile playing on his pink lips.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

Hermione allowed Mr Malfoy to guide her down the corridor, after ensuring that Lady Sinclair had been escorted to her bedroom safely. But Hermione knew that there was no safety in the home – not in the bedrooms, kitchens or drawing room. It mattered naught where one was, for if they were intended to die, they would regardless of their location.

A frightening thought, it was. Hermione was acutely aware that her last moments on God's green earth could be that very night. Troubling and terrifying, to be sure.

"Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy addressed, pulling her out of her reverie. "You seem to be troubled, if I may comment on the matter."

"Is that surprising, sir?" Hermione whispered, opening the door to her bedroom, but didn't step inside.

"I suppose it is not," Mr Malfoy said after a brief pause. "Would you like me to search the bedroom, ma'am?"

"Would you?" Hermione breathed, turning to face the handsome blonde. "I would most appreciate it, sir."

Mr Malfoy nodded before he brushed passed her and stepped through the threshold. Hermione remained at the doorway as he strolled into the bedroom, his hard silver eyes scanning the space intently. She watched as he opened the wardrobe and looked inside, glanced beneath the plush bed, and checked the attached ensuite across the room. It took the hitman little more than a minute to declare that the bedroom was clear of all threats, thereby permitting her safe entrance.

Entering the bedroom, Hermione made to close the door behind her, but quickly faltered. If she was to close the door, by extension, that would present an offer to Mr Malfoy. An offer which Hermione had certainly considered, but was unable to extend, due to her morals.

"Would you prefer I stay?" Mr Malfoy asked, watching her as she hovered by the door unsurely.

"Yes," Hermione answered honestly. "Perhaps not for the purpose you are entertaining, Mr Malfoy, but merely for a sense of security in this perilous matter."

"Then I will stay," Mr Malfoy nodded once.

In an unladylike fashion, Hermione bit her bottom lip, her brow furrowed as she thought. For a man to remain in her bedroom – with the door closed, no less – would be greatly indecent. Although, Hermione was acutely aware of the dangers at the château, and certainly valued her own life over that of scandalous rumours. Furthermore, the rumours were hardly a threat. Lady Sinclair would be the only person on the island to spread such rumours should they ever escape. But as Lady Sinclair had opted to stay in Mr Zabini's bedroom for safety the night prior, Hermione suspected that the gossip would not leak.

"Are you intending on remaining by the door the entire night, Miss Granger?" Mr Malfoy smirked, unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt, seemingly making himself perfectly comfortable.

"Pardon me," Hermione muttered as she quietly closed the door behind her. "I became lost in thought, Mr Malfoy."

"Please, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy sighed, offering a weary glance. "Given that we have touched lips, I believe you are more than within your rights to refer to me as Draco."

"You have extended that offer to me already, Mr Malfoy, yet I continue to refer to you in a proper manner," Hermione countered, approached the dresser.

Mr Malfoy watched as she opened the second drawer of the dresser, removing her nightwear discreetly. His hard silver eyes raked over the splendid view of her buttocks, the shape only just ascertainable in the straight dress the woman wore.

"If I am not mistaken, Miss Granger, you have accepted that offer once," Mr Malfoy countered, averting his gaze from her body as she turned to face him. "I wonder as to the reason for your sudden change of mind."

"Perhaps I do not wish to confuse you, sir," Hermione explained, clutching her nightwear against her chest.

"How would you confuse me, Miss Granger?" Mr Malfoy asked as he presumptuously lit himself a cigarette in her boudoir. But Hermione said nothing of the offensive smoke, for the gentleman had agreed to remain in her room, purely for the purpose of ensuring her security.

"I do not wish for you to labour under the misapprehension that I possess impure sentiments toward you, Mr Malfoy."

"Ah," Mr Malfoy grinned, smoke billowing out of his nostrils. "But I am so very certain that you do harbour said sentiments, as I do for you, Miss Granger."

Hermione stared the gentleman down, completely unwavering, but couldn't prevent the blush creeping up her cheeks. As she made to begin her walk toward the ensuite, Mr Malfoy stepped forward, the movement halting her in her tracks instantly.

"How would I make my feelings moral enough for you? Get down on one knee and ask for your hand, Miss Granger?" Mr Malfoy grinned wickedly, approaching her with predatory movements. "Is that your ambition? To become Mrs Malfoy?"

"I would never accept a man like yourself," Hermione declared, stepping backwards, away from the slowly advancing man.

"I think you're lying," Malfoy grinned, backing her into the dresser. "I think you are drawn to the danger, craving the excitement that I offer. The protection and security."

"You are a killer, sir," Hermione breathed shakily.

"That is my profession, yes, but is it who I am?" Mr Malfoy asked, quirking his brow as he butted out his cigarette on the dresser. "Does my career define me, Miss Granger?"

"Yes."

"If that is the case, then does your abandonment of an injured man define you?" Mr Malfoy smirked, placing his hands on the dresser, caging her in.

"That was different, sir."

"Was it? How so?"

"I chose to protect my own wellbeing, sir. You chose money over the lives of others."

"Money and survival are one of the same, Miss Granger. Did you ever report what you saw in that alleyway? Did you attend the police station to offer a statement about what you witnessed?"

"No," Hermione said guiltily.

"Then how can you regard me with such judgement when you yourself chose survival? You could have gone to the police, Miss Granger. You could have presented an eye-witness account, but you did not, despite being far from danger once you fled. So, tell me; why did you remain silent?"

"I do not know, sir."

"Don't you?" Mr Malfoy smirked. "You are unlike any woman I have ever met. You are pure in the best sense of the word, and kind to your core, but a survivalist at heart. I fancy myself quite taken with you, but I suppose you are already aware of that, aren't you, Miss Granger?"

Hermione didn't – couldn't – reply. Her lips were parted, prepared to issue a response, but her words had failed her. The moment had taken a noticeable turn, and she couldn't help but sense a shift in the air; the change in his piercing silver eyes. Suddenly, Hermione realised how close their bodies were; how close their faces were. The warm puffs of his breaths could be felt brushing over her face, smelling of cigarette smoke and brandy. Two atrocious aromas when separated, but Hermione found that they created an alluring aroma when combined.

Mr Malfoy held her stare as he removed the bundle of clothing from her arms, Hermione's hands releasing the attire as though she had been hypnotised by his mere eyes. In a way, she had.

"I will not lie to you, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy said, his tone suddenly huskily deep. "I could tell you theories of how we may never make it off this island, and therefore, how we are able to indulge ourselves in what you deem to be sinful."

The clothing dropped to the floor, creating a pile of clean nightwear that neither paid any mind to. All Hermione could focus on – albeit, perhaps unwillingly– was his thick voice, coated with desire and seduction, and his captivating silver eyes.

"However," Mr Malfoy smirked, his gaze holding hers as he stared down at her sinfully. "I stand by my convictions, Miss Granger. I will save us both from this island, so I cannot fill your mind with slim possibilities. If you are to accept my touch, it will be of your own accord, and not my manipulative coercion."

Through the cloud of lust that consumed her dazed mind, Hermione was able to marginally piece together his words. He had given her a choice, but waited not for her response. His hands had already moved to her face, cupping her cheeks firmly before his lips found hers. It was not a desperate, passionate kiss, but soft and tender, respectful and patient. Her response was offered the moment that her lips parted with his, and their tongues met at the halfway point.

Eyelids fluttered shut as his warm tongue slipped over hers gently, leaving a trail of his flavour in its wake. With each soft caress, Hermione found that she became even more lost than before, but it wasn't a terrible instance. For she was lost in the most delectable mouth she had ever tasted – not that she had tasted many prior.

The taste of his tongue matched that of his aroma; cigarettes and brandy, creating an explosion of seductive and alluring flavour on her own tongue. The trace of taste left much more to be desired, so Hermione parted her lips further, moving her tongue in perfect unison with his, relishing in the perfect combination of zest he offered.

One hand remained on her cheek, their tongues dancing together in the most romantic of ways, his other hand trailing down her body gradually. At each pause of his hand on her figure, her breath would hitch, particularly at her waist and near the plump mounds on her chest. He never touched the breasts he desperately wished to, and instead, travelled his hand further down the slight curve of her figure to the hem of her modest dress.

The moment Hermione felt the warmth of his fingertips graze up her thigh, slowly creeping beneath her dress, her eyelids fluttered open as she somewhat came back to her surroundings. At this moment, however, Mr Malfoy deepened their kiss, causing a moan to escape her, his hand sliding up her thigh confidently.

"Sir," Hermione breathed into his mouth, her body alight with sinful desires, "we shouldn't."

"Perhaps not," Mr Malfoy smirked against her lips, his hand continuing on its painfully slow journey. "But we will."

Before a response could slip from her tingling tongue, Mr Malfoy suddenly pulled her from the dresser, yanking her body against his as their lips remained connected. The kiss resumed with so much intensity that Hermione couldn't even begin to comprehend the lustful desires surging within her. A gasp of surprise came from her as he abruptly tossed her onto the bed without care, Hermione bouncing a little on her landing.

Supporting herself on her elbows, Hermione remained perfectly still on the mattress, anticipation and fear swarming in her honey brown eyes. The most delectable smirk graced Mr Malfoy's pink lips as he purposefully undid the rest of his shirt buttons, his stormy silver eyes boring into her with intent. The message was loud and clear, perfectly decipherable, and was returned the moment Hermione slowly kicked off her heels.

The shoes landed on the carpeted floor with soft thuds, but neither noticed or cared. Mr Malfoy slowly pulled off his shirt to reveal his perfectly sculpted chest, and Hermione entertained the fleeting comparison of his body to that of a Greek God's. In fact, she believed to have seen a similar body carved into a marble sculpture in the British Museum once. The resemblance was far too great, she realised.

A fierce blush assaulted her cheeks as he unfastened his belt, his gaze never tearing away from hers. Deliberately, Mr Malfoy whipped the belt from its straps, smirking down at her on the mattress as her gaze left his. Honey brown eyes raked down the perfectly muscular body, travelling leisurely until they reached a V shape that disappeared into his trousers.

Hermione didn't realise that she was breathing harshly, nor did she know that her tongue darted out and dampened her own lips as she drank in the sight of the gentleman. Her gaze remained fixed on the waistband of his trousers as he kicked off his shoes. Mr Malfoy pointedly unzipped his trousers, the sound scratching through the thick atmosphere that consumed them. Slowly, he pushed the slacks from his body, the material falling down to his feet, revealing himself in all his glory to the blushing woman.

One glance at the erection had Hermione turning into the colour of ripe tomato, her face turning to the side to evade the image. But the image was burned into her mind for all eternity. There was no escaping it. Long, smooth, flawless and thick. It was there, in her mind. Even as she shut her eyes, the image would not leave her. But Hermione deduced that if her eyes remained shut for the time being, she would be retaining her virtue in a sense. A complete lie she had told herself, but one that she required to push through the nerves and fear.

Make no mistake of it – Hermione Granger wanted this. At least, her body did, and her mind perhaps only concurred due to the dreadful circumstances she found herself in. regardless, she had not rejected his advances, and made no move to do so as the mattress dipped, indicating that Mr Malfoy had drawn closer to her.

Her eyes remained closed as soft skin brushed over her jawline, Hermione fleetingly realising that the skin was in fact his lips. Knees slid up the mattress, pushing against her legs to part them, and she permitted it. As her legs spread to invite the gentleman forward, Hermione breathed shakily, feeling the nerve-wracking sensations he was already stirring within her.

A guttural whimper tore through her throat as she felt his fingers slip up her inner thigh, journeying to her underwear confidently. A jolt of absolute ecstasy shot through her as he hooked his fingers through the waistband and pulled her underwear down, slipping them off her legs. She assisted him in the effort by bringing her legs closer together before they were off completely. All the while, her eyes remained shut and face turned to the side.

The sound of her underwear hitting the floor caused her to spread her legs once more – albeit, a little more hesitantly – and reveal her core to the man. Two of his fingers stroked over the nest of brown curls appreciatively, sending tingles of dizzyingly delightful sensations to her core. The pit of her stomach heavied with bouts of nerves and excitement, laced with the desire she ached with.

Again, his fingers stroked over the course hair, travelling further down to the nub of electricity. But he didn't touch it. Swallowing thickly, Hermione lay herself down fully, her hands clutching at the sheets as she waited rather impatiently. In truth, she had no idea what to do, but he seemed to be experienced, so she lay there and hoped for the best. The best being that she wasn't so terrible that he would lose all interest in her.

Another stroke, this one much lighter than the last, but travelled much further down than the last. His fingertips stopped right at the nub, hovering over it, his intense silver gaze fixed on her beautifully flushed face. A crease formed at her brow, one of frustration, as his fingers passed her clitoris and slid down over her slick folds. There, he gathered her elixir before spreading it up to her swollen nub, Hermione feebly crying out at the contact.

Fire. That is what she felt. The most delightful, delectable, exquisite sensations of fire coursing through her body, assaulting each and every nerve ending, consuming her wholly. It was blinding, debilitating, sinful and oh so sweet.

"You will have to forgive me, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy breathed throatily, desire slicking his husky voice. "I cannot seem to delay any further."

Hermione didn't respond verbally, but nodded a mere fraction to indicate that she concurred with his claim. The heat of his body radiated onto hers as he lowered himself on top of her, one forearm resting beside her head, supporting his weight. Hermione forced her eyes to open, and gazed at his bicep from beneath her lashes, finding that the sight only served to increase her blatant arousal.

Something so very soft, yet hard touched her clit, causing her back to arch and her breasts to press against his hard chest. From the movement of his other arm, she concluded that he was massaging the tip of his shaft against her core, and the sensations were simply magnificent. He did not kiss or caress her as he performed the licentious action, for his attention was solely on observing the flush on her cheeks as she whimpered, and watching as she bit her lip in sheer delight.

A sticky warm substance now coated her core, along with the residue of her own excitement. The feel of the sticky stuff was peculiar, she noted, but not uncomfortable. In fact, it stirred something inside of her, but what, she didn't know.

"Are you a maiden, Miss Granger?" Mr Malfoy whispered, bringing his face down to hers, grazing his lips over her cheek.

"Yes," Hermione breathed, her hands moving from the sheets to clasp onto his naked back. There, she felt a few scars, but found that it didn't hinder his appeal in the slightest.

"I will be gentle," Mr Malfoy assured, using the head of his cock to part her slick folds. "But it will sting at first."

A nod was the only response he received before he pushed the tip into her slick folds, a frown creasing at his brow at the sheer tightness he was met with. He stilled, not wanting to cause injury. Instead, his thumb circled her swollen nub as the head of his shaft remained snugly inside of her, the beauty beneath him gasping at the sensations he assaulted her with. But her face remained turned to the side, and her eyes gazing at his bicep.

"Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy urged, rolling the bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb. "Look at me."

"I cannot, sir," Hermione rasped, her body beginning to tense from the onslaught. "I cannot."

"You can," Mr Malfoy purred seductively, increasing the pressure of his ministrations as he slipped another inch inside of her. "Look at me, Miss Granger."

Reluctantly, Hermione turned her face to align with his, their noses grazes together in a whisper of a touch. The moment she faced him and he was met with the sight of her pooling brown eyes, Mr Malfoy slid another inch deeper into her tight haven, a barrier preventing further passage.

"This, Miss Granger, is your moment of escape," Mr Malfoy whispered, his voice rough with carnal need. His thumb continued to work her clit as she remained tense, only twitching sporadically beneath him from the pleasure. "If I enter any further, your maidenhead will be mine."

"It is yours," Hermione breathed, his lips twisting into a wide grin at the response.

"And you, Miss Granger?" Mr Malfoy asked, brushing his lips against hers. "Are you mine?"

Before she could even formulate a response, Mr Malfoy pinched her clit between his thumb and index finger, rolling and tweaking it expertly. The orgasm was so sudden that she was entirely taken off guard by the wave of pleasure that crashed down on her violently. Hermione tensed, time standing still completely, before a guttural cry tore from her throat, filling the room with the sweet melody of her pleasure.

"Yesss," Hermione hissed harmoniously, her eyelids fluttering shut as her body jerked against his. She couldn't even think about the response she gave him – it just happened.

Mr Malfoy grinned triumphantly before he slid out of her tight haven to the tip of his cock, lingering there for just a moment as he drank in the beauty of her flushed features.

"Then I will take what is mine, Miss Granger."

* * *

Silk ivory flickered with the lantern light, shimmering spectacularly. Lady Sinclair stood in front of the desk in her bedroom, clad in her nightwear. The two-piece nightslip clung flatteringly to her figure, and her blonde curls cascaded down her back freely. Unable to capture the elusive sleep that she sought, Octavia fiddled with the lantern atop the desk in her luxurious boudoir. The desk was placed against the window, so as she fiddled with the level of light to penetrate the bedroom, her gaze stared out onto the scenery of the island.

As Mr Malfoy had predicted, the storm had already begun to show signs of dissipation, but raged on in its final moments regardless. Clouds still thickened the night sky, and rain continued to soak the dewy grass of the island. Trees and shrubs billowed from the brutal force of the whispering winds, but Octavia could see the moon above – only a slither of it, but it was there. It was the primary indication that the thick smog of clouds was beginning to disperse as the storm moved on, presumably further out into the sea.

Tearing her weary eyes from the window, Octavia glanced for the countless time at the grandfather clock beside the desk. Her brows furrowed as she realised that it was already past midnight, and she found herself wondering where the hours had gone. From the time, she could ascertain that her return to the bedroom had only been two hours ago, but it felt as though it had been a lifetime ago. Fear did that to a person. It morphed and contorted time in one's mind, expanding it to impossible measures as one awaited their inevitable meeting with the Reaper.

Octavia simply loathed herself in that moment. If she had been kinder to Mr Zabini, and shown in the same level of respect that he had shown her, she may not have felt so frightened and alone. If Octavia had have held her tongue, she may currently be in the presence – and therefore, protection – of the man who now appeared to despise her.

Unable to deny the truth of the matter, Octavia shut her eyes as she embraced the pang in her chest. Fleetingly, she realised that the hostility between herself and Mr Zabini was the cause of the pain. It was an utter disgrace, in the bigger picture. For a lady of her standing to harbour romantic inclinations toward a gentleman like Mr Zabini was an outrage in simple terms. Her father would be aghast should he learn of her sentiments, her mother would never be able to meet her eyes again, and her entire society would reject her. That is, if they ever learned of her feelings toward the gentleman.

In truth, Octavia was beginning to consider the possibility that she may never leave Durrem Island. If she never left the island, her family and peers would never know of how she had fallen for a hitman from the working class. Had she fallen for Mr Zabini? The pang in her chest suggested as much. The fear she had felt for him when he had travelled to Mr Wilby's bedroom further proved the theory. And the dreadful sense of misery she endured in that moment only confirmed her suspicions.

Lady Octavia Sinclair had fallen for a lowly contract killer.

The scandal it could become …

Suddenly a sharp knock at the bedroom door banged out, hauling Octavia from her reverie. It took a moment for a stab of fear to strike through her, for the visitor could very well be the Reaper coming to collect on the debt.

With her blood running cold, Octavia shakily removed her hands from the lantern, turning ever so slowly to face the door. She wished to call out to the visitor in order to inquire as to their identity, but her voice failed her, having gotten stuck in her throat.

Swallowing thickly, Octavia approached the door with hesitant steps, her entire body beginning to tremble from the terror and adrenaline. Again, the knock banged out, but Octavia noticed that whilst it sounded dreadfully loud to her, it was a mere tap in reality. As she neared the door, Octavia placed her trembling hand on the smooth white wood, her breath coming out in hitched gravelly whispers.

"Who is it?" Octavia rasped, barely loud enough for her voice to travel through the wooden door.

A pause of silence served as the initial response. Octavia glanced down at the thin line of light at the bottom of the door, seeing shadows in the illumination of the corridor lights. Two shoes, it seemed to be.

"A lowly peasant," a quiet and recognisable voice replied after a moment, relief washing over Octavia instantly.

Despite feeling relief at the realisation of who was knocking on her door, Octavia could not rid herself of the nerves plaguing every nerve in her body. In fact, they almost appeared to increase if possible. Inhaling and exhaling deeply in an attempt to calm the adrenaline surging inside of her, Octavia used her shaky, slender fingers to unlock the door, but didn't open it. She merely allowed the clinking sound to indicate that it was unlocked to her visitor.

Stepping away from the door, Octavia stopped halfway into the bedroom and turned to face the wall. The moment she did, the door opened with a creak, soft thudding footsteps echoing out through the tense atmosphere. As the door clicked closed, Octavia felt a shudder run down her spine, only increased at the sound of the door locking.

Casual and steady footsteps thudded against the carpet, nearing the tense Octavia at an excruciatingly slow rate. But with each step closer to her, Mr Zabini added to her adrenaline, causing her bosom to rise and fall noticeably, her shuddering breaths trickling through the air.

Every shudder, surge of adrenaline and tingle that assaulted Octavia's body ventured to the shared destination of her core. So when Mr Zabini stopped, a mere inch from her back, Octavia found that her core was simply alight with the most disgraceful of carnal desires. Each breath he released tickled the curls atop her head, making her feel minuscule in front of him. Shuffling her stocking-clad feet nervously, Octavia pleaded internally for him to speak, or touch her, or do anything to break the impossibly suffocating silence consuming them.

As though her pleas had been heard, Mr Zabini spoke in his smooth, yet demanding voice, "You didn't come to me tonight."

"You expressed your preference to the contrary, sir," Octavia whispered, bowing her head a little.

A brief pause occurred, in which neither spoke. And then he said it. He said the words she had been thinking. He said those words in such a silky smooth voice that she almost dropped to her knees from the sheer allure.

"I want you."

Sparks erupted in her cloudy mind, seemingly sourcing from her aching core at his entirely improper declaration. But Octavia found that, given the circumstances, she truly did not care that it was all wholly improper. She was well aware of the fact that she could die before departing the island, so she did as the Romans would say: Carpe Diem.

"So take me, sir." Octavia whispered, her cheeks flaming at the words she had spoken.

Surprisingly rough fingertips grazed over her bare shoulders, sending jolts of pleasure and anticipation through her body. A light sigh of bliss escaped her parted lips, her eyelids fluttering shut at the innocent, yet devious touch. Ever so slowly, his fingers brushed the straps of her camisole off her shoulders, down her soft arms until it dropped from her body and onto the floor.

Despite standing in front of the gentleman in only her silk skirt, stockings and brassiere, Octavia felt no shame, only vulnerability. But that vulnerability increased her insatiable lust, for the delight at placing herself in the hands of the gentleman was the sweetest thing she had ever known.

"How would you prefer I take you, My Lady?" Mr Zabini whispered smoothly, only melting her further to him.

Octavia tried to respond, she truly did. But the moment that his lips grazed over her shoulder, all that escaped her lips was a shaky breath of absolute pleasure. Further preventions of her speech occurred when his hand slipped around her torso, his fingertips dancing over her soft stomach delightfully.

"Perhaps you wish for me to make love to you," Mr Zabini purred, presenting no question to her. "I believe my sentiments regarding you would accommodate it, My Lady."

His fingers continued to dance seductively up her torso until they reached her right breast, setting to brushing over the fabric of her brassiere teasingly. His hand slipped under the material to her breast, grabbing the mound gently as his thumb rolled the tight nub expertly.

"However," Mr Zabini whispered, massaging her breast gently, Octavia utterly immobile as she relished in the sensations. "I cannot help but suspect that you desire the contrary."

Slipping his hand from her brassiere, Mr Zabini trailed his hand down to her skirt, brushing his fingers over the side-strap of her stocking instead. Slowly, his fingertips grazed up her stocking strap, beneath the silk skirt, before they rested on the waistband of her underwear.

"Correct me if I am wrong," Mr Zabini breathed against the tingling skin of her neck, "but I believe you wish for something a little more … _primitive_."

The whimper that escaped her lips was the only reply Mr Zabini received before he gripped onto the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down gradually. The sound of a belt buckle fumbled out as the underwear dropped to the floor, Mr Zabini evidently unfastening his trousers to provide her with what she desired – with what they both desired.

Suddenly, a thought struck her. A thought that was so very sobering, that she gasped and whipped around to face the strikingly handsome gentleman. Before she could voice her thought, Octavia found herself frozen in place by the sheer darkness in his eyes. The black pits swarmed with a multitude of emotions, so much so that she could not identify them all. But if Octavia was a betting woman, which she most certainly was not, perhaps she would have guessed at least one to have been of affection.

Mr Zabini held her gaze as he steadily unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his perfectly sculpted, tanned and slightly scarred chest. The embarrassment of the lady was evident in her rosy cheeks and sparkling hazel eyes, but he knew that it was due to the released erection he sported. The lengthy cock protruded from his unzipped trousers, tanned and perfectly flawless, but the lady dared not glance at it.

"Mr Zabini," Octavia whispered, seemingly struggling to break free of her daze. "I …"

"Shh," Mr Zabini hushed, cupping her cheek as he stepped toward her, his erection prodding her belly. "I will not release inside of you, Lady Sinclair."

Octavia nodded, her face burning with shame, for he had correctly identified her startling thoughts. Hardly a woman of regular licentious acts, Octavia did not care to cart around a stash of contraception for herself, but to partake in sexual intercourse without a rubber cap (an inserted device to block sperm from swimming up to the womb) was hazardous indeed. The only other options were to abstain from the act altogether, or ensure that it was ceased prior to ejaculation. Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair were clearly in no mood to abstain, so the latter option would have to be employed.

The hand on Octavia's cheek travelled downwards, slowly reaching her smooth neck before it gripped firmly. Mr Zabini stared down at her clouded hazel eyes, his face that of stone as he clutched onto her throat. His parted pink lips neared hers, grazing together in the gentlest of ways, but his black eyes were hard with absolute dominance, contradicting the ministration strikingly.

Impatience glistened in her hazel eyes, Octavia leaning up on her tip-toes to connect their lips entirely. But before she could initiate a kiss, the grip on her neck tightened as Mr Zabini stepped toward her, causing her to teeter backwards in the direction he guided her in. An ungraceful grunt came from the lady as he shoved her harshly against the wall, his body pressed against hers firmly, his black gaze penetrating her big hazel eyes.

The lust whipped around them in lashes of utter need, but the hardness in Mr Zabini's eyes was noticeable to Octavia. His anger at her treatment of him remained within him, and she had no doubt in her mind that he intended to punish the behaviour. In the most delightful way possible.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

Mr Zabini bunched up the silk night skirt to her slim waist before his hands crudely grabbed onto her ample buttocks, lifting her up off the ground. Octavia clutched onto his muscular shoulders for support and balance as he nudged the head of his weeping cock against her dripping core. The shuffling sound of his shoes against the carpet indicated that he was aligning himself with her haven without use of his hands, his lips pressed against hers, but not kissing her. He only breathed against her parted lips, occasionally nipping at the plump skin.

Octavia did not feel the pain of his fingers digging into her buttocks, for the pleasure of his shaft grazing against her slick folds captured her full attention. Swinging her legs up to wrap around his hips, Octavia locked her ankles together and nudged her bare core against his cock to present a better angle.

Whilst Mr Zabini's hand was no longer on her throat, the sheer dominance that radiated from his body maintained her submissive reaction to him. His bare, muscular chest pressed so harshly against hers that her breasts ached from the pressure, but she didn't wince or complain. In fact, Octavia barely felt the pain, for the head of his cock now slipped perfectly into place at her soaked opening.

With each gentle nudge, Mr Zabini allowed her folds to part for him, his lips pressing harder against hers, earning a sharp breath from the lady at the sting. The wall, while smooth and flat, felt as though it was jagged and harsh against her back, but it only added to the intensity of the heated deed about to ensue.

"Kiss me, sir," Octavia rasped, the excitement evident in her breathy voice. "Kiss me."

Adhering to her request immediately, Mr Zabini parted his lips as his tongue delved into her warm mouth, finding her tongue instantly. Moaning into his mouth, Octavia tried to bring herself down onto his perfectly erect shaft, but the firm grip he had on her bottom wouldn't allow any movement from her at all. He was in total control.

Their tongues battled together fiercely as she remained between him and the wall, her juices dripping down on his hardened cock already. It earned a twitch from his cock and a stifled groan from his mouth into hers.

A shriek of pleasure tore through the room as he suddenly plunged himself deep inside of her, his knees bent slightly for leverage. Mr Zabini groaned loudly at the tight, hot feel of her core engulfing him completely, their tongues stilling as the sensations tingled through them.

Pleasure shot through Octavia's body in the most violent of manners, her back arching and cunt clenching as he remained still inside of her. In simple terms, Octavia felt full. She felt stretched, filled and wholly indecent in a lovely sense. Every inch of his shaft was completely submerged inside of her, and the sensations it brought were beyond wonderful. The warmth of her tight heat surrounded him snugly, her slick cunt wrapped around his tense shaft as he resumed their prior kiss. All breath escaped them both as he shoved himself even deeper inside of her, a sweet mewling sound coming from the parted lips of the lady he resided within. His pelvis pressed harshly against hers, unable to push himself any further into her heat as she made a sound of protest at his stillness.

"You have no idea what you do to me," Mr Zabini purred huskily, slipping his cock out of her to the tip.

The head of his lubricated cock sat snugly between her slick folds, Octavia breathing harshly already as he remained motionless. His cock tensed and leaked pre-cum as his lips grazed over hers, a whine of frustration escaping the lady.

Pleasure beyond anything they had ever felt crashed down on them without mercy as he sheathed his cock deep inside of her to the hilt. Octavia squealed into his mouth, her fingernails digging into the smooth skin of his shoulders, her walls fluttering around his shaft. Again, with slow and deliberate movements, Mr Zabini slid his cock out of her before abruptly ramming it back in with brutal strength. Only this time, he had brought her down onto him, rather than thrusting upwards, causing an unladylike grunt to come from the woman. Their lips pressed together harshly, both swallowing the other's noises of pleasure as he began to pummel into her soaked cunt, her walls already quivering around his shaft.

Tanned hands clutched harshly onto her buttocks as he pounded into her roughly, bringing her down repeatedly to meet his deep thrusts. Through the daze of intoxication, he felt only pleasure in cock and heart as she mewled and whimpered incessantly. The noises were sure to have come only from the heavens, accompanied by his gravelly and husky groans.

"Oh," Octavia gasped, her walls fluttering and quivering as pleasure burned at every nerve in her body. "Oh, oh, there … Yes …Oh!"

A grunt escaped her parted lips as he shoved her further against the door, his kiss deepening as cock fucked her mercilessly. His lips twisted into a grin against hers as he panted, continuing to pound into her relentlessly.

"Oh, God," Octavia moaned wantonly into his mouth.

"Call me Blaise," Mr Zabini grinned, his voice hoarse and thick with the pleasure of their deed.

"Blaise," Octavia whined, her core slamming down onto his shaft relentlessly.

The legs wrapped around his waist began to quiver, Mr Zabini consuming every squeak and whimper that escaped the woman, their lips connected, but neither kissing the other. They only panted and moaned into one another's mouths, too drenched in pleasure to do anything else.

"Fuck," he groaned into her mouth as her cunt tightened impossibly, attempting to draw him deeper inside of her.

The sweetly slick cunt clamped down on his engorged shaft as he pummelled into her, his muscular body pressed firmly against hers as she began to squirm. A high-pitched screech escaped her lips, her back arching, toes curling, and legs tightening around his hips as time stood still. She lingered over the edge of abyss before falling blindly, pleasure crashing down on her and assaulting every fibre of her being.

Mr Zabini shouted out a stifled groan into her mouth as her cunt pulsed around his cock. He plunged into her a few more times, helping her ride out her orgasm on his tensing cock before suddenly pulling out of her. One hand abruptly left her buttocks, clasping around his thick shaft hurriedly as he panted into her mouth.

Octavia had relaxed against him completely, breathing harshly into his mouth as he quickly stroked his length a few times. A sharp intake of breath sounded out before followed by a deep, low and gravelly groan, Mr Zabini emptying his load at her glistening entrance. The tip of his dampened cock prodded against her folds as he came undone, his body falling limp against hers, relaxing against one another.

However, the pause of tranquillity passed quickly, and he didn't allow her another moment to come down from the pleasure, nor himself. Holding her up against him, their combined elixirs coating her core, Mr Zabini pulled them both from the wall and carried the lady over to the bed.

Mr Zabini was not even close to being finished with her.

* * *

*.*.*.*

* * *

Hermione's hips began to buck, his finger twirling perfectly in time with her desperate movements as she neared her release. She felt his finger thrust into her quivering cunt, and a cry ripped through her as ecstasy crashed down upon her. Her body twitched and jerked with her fourth orgasm, her cunt clamping down on his finger that moved in circles inside of her. Mr Malfoy moaned against her lips as she came, which sent her into a frenzy. The vibrations of the husky sound pushed her climax to the next level as her legs stretched out, her toes curling as she shouted out.

Amidst the daze of her orgasm, Hermione frowned as the pleasure began to dim, but felt a pressure of something else push down on her humming body. Blinking back to reality, she realised that Mr Malfoy had lowered himself entirely onto her body, the weight pinning her down on the mattress and sweaty sheets. His lips trailed down to her neck, one muscular arm slipping around her back, holding her against him as his free hand slipped beneath her damp brassiere. The white cotton garment clung to her skin from the sweat of them both, the material turning translucent, revealing a slight image of her breasts and hardened nipples.

Mr Malfoy's hand raked over her dewy bare flesh beneath the damp material, moving upwards to her round and perky breasts. His thumb flicked over her hardened nipple, his lips kissing gently at the crook of her neck. Wrapping her nearly limp and fatigued legs around his hips, Hermione's head lolled back, her back arching at the exquisite sensations coursing through her body, her raw core simply on fire.

A thick and long erection lay upon her, sticky from their prior deeds, the underside of his cock resting on her pelvis. His fingers tweaked and pulled at her erect nipple teasingly, frequent gasps escaping her parted lips at his ministrations.

Adjusting himself, Mr Malfoy quickly positioned the head of his cock at her slick folds, his lips moving to hers as his tongue delved into her sweet mouth. They both moaned in perfect unison as he slid his thick cock into her pulsing core, the residue of her fourth orgasm allowing him to slip in with perfect ease. The silkiness of her elixir coated his cock as he pushed her down into the mattress, his forearm pressed into the bed for support.

Their tongues danced together passionately as he moved his hips, sliding his engorged shaft in and out of her slick cunt leisurely. Each slow and fluid thrust sent surges of pleasure through their sweaty bodies as they kissed deeply, Hermione's hands clutching onto his muscular shoulders. She gasped into his mouth as he stretched and filled her entirely before slipping out and pushing back in gently.

Every determined and perfect stroke of his cock inside of her caused her tingling nerves to burn with desire, pleasure washing over them unlike it had done the first time. The first encounter of coitus was relatively painful for Hermione, but he had quickly seen to her orgasm once he had finished himself onto her belly. The lack of contraception meant that he could not empty himself inside of her, and the lack of pain now meant that she was able to reach climax through their deed.

A guttural moan tore through her throat at the sensations he stirred inside of her, his muscular chest pressed firmly against her body. His perfectly sculpted arse clenched as he swirled his hips in a circular motion, earning a shaky gasp from the beautiful woman beneath him. The material of her brassiere plastered against her skin, bunched up with every movement and thrust, his tongue exploring her mouth greedily.

Hermione moaned as he slid his cock out of her slowly, his groans and breaths entering her mouth seductively. She gasped as he suddenly slammed into her, now pumping his engorged cock in and out of her desperately. Moans and growls, pants and whimpers filled the air around them, the sensations of ecstasy crashing down on them violently, consuming their bodies entirely.

Mr Malfoy ended their kiss, resting his forehead against hers as he curved his back slightly, his eyes gazing down at her perfect body, drinking in every detail of the image. The droplets of sweat trickled down her perceptible cleavage, her brassiere moved in such a way that it revealed her tight and hard nipples to his hungry gaze. Her perfect soft breasts bounced from the sheer force of his thrusts, her hips bucking to meet his skilled movements.

Her parted pink lips uttered the sweetest string of moans and whimpers, causing his cock to jerk inside of her, desperate to fill her with his seed. Her eyes shut in pure bliss, damp curls sticking to the sides of her beautiful face delectably. Mr Malfoy now found that he couldn't tear his hungry gaze from her contorted expression of pleasure, pumping his cock in and out of her swiftly.

Hermione's legs stretched in the air, her back arching, feet stretching, toes pointing as he pounded into her tight cunt mercilessly, panting harshly as he fucked her. She felt like she was drowning in ecstasy as he pummelled her with his engorged cock, Mr Malfoy's harsh grunts and groans feeding the pleasure pooling at her core. As he tensed and jerked inside of her intensely, she cried out, knowing her release was close; so desperate to reach it – to reach the sensations he was giving her.

"Mr Malfoy," Hermione groaned wantonly, fingernails tearing at his smooth skin. "Please … Right … there … Just like that!"

Mr Malfoy growled dangerously at her wanton voice, fucking her furiously as she whimpered and squealed against him. Each thrust filled her completely, hitting that ribbed spot deep inside of her.

"You're so beautiful, Miss Granger" Mr Malfoy groaned, his stormy eyes drinking in her expression of pure bliss.

She moaned lustfully as he fucked her hard, feeling his cock jerk and tense inside of her, knowing he was close. Her contracting cunt sent the same message, her body tensing and stilling as she lingered over the edge of excruciating ecstasy.

Her orgasm no longer danced around her but crashed down on her with brutal force. Hermione cried out in a high-pitched shriek, his cock slamming in and out of her urgently, entirely without rhythm. His grunts and moans became more and more desperate with each thrust into her quivering cunt, her gush of cum soaking his shaft. A heavy and loud groan ripped through the air, joining her cries of sheer ecstasy as she felt his cock jerk, swiftly slip out and empty its loads on her glistening core.

Mr Malfoy groaned hoarsely, a frown creasing at his brow as his lips crashed against her parted ones. They swallowed one another's sounds of pleasure, his body going limp against hers as they relaxed, both panting into each other's mouths. Their heart beats began to steady, their lips remaining connected, but no longer kissing, merely touching.

* * *

*.*.*.*

* * *

Straddling Mr Zabini, Octavia kept her hands gripped onto his tanned shoulders, one of his muscular arms holding her against him. The not-so-gentlemanly Italian sat on the bed, one elbow pressing into the mattress as he watched her move experimentally. Each sway and swirl of her hips sent frenzied sensations through his body, his lips parted, brows furrowed and dazed black eyes drinking in her splendour of beauty.

Octavia's core ached terribly, but it did nothing to dim the intense pleasure brewing within her. The bedroom reeked of an alluring combination of sex and sweat, harsh breaths and moans echoing out melodically. They rocked together in perfect harmony, passion controlling their every move.

Whilst Octavia was on top of the man, in no way was she in control of the act. The arm around her body assisted her movements, guiding her to swirl his cock deep inside of her raw core. All articles of clothing had been discarded, scattering around the room, her brassiere hanging from the bedpost, his trousers scrunched beneath them, one stocking draped over the chandelier above. How the stocking had gotten up there was completely unknown and unfathomable, but neither paid it any mind.

Naked, sweaty bodies glided in the light of the lantern, separated by a few inches, Mr Zabini in a trance as he watched her ride him. Their combined fluids stained the sheets, coated their thighs, providing noises of sex to fill the room. It only added to their moment of passion.

Octavia moaned wantonly as Blaise tugged her down onto his shaft, her dishevelled curls bouncing, her perky yet small breasts jutting at the impact. Her shaky legs remained bent as she sat on her knees, straddling his lip, riding his cock in perfectly slow movements, her brows furrowed in concentration. Mr Zabini's legs were bent at the knees also, but he didn't kneel like she did, and instead, sprawled out leisurely as he watched her in utter captivation.

The arm around her back pulled her down impossibly low onto his shaft, allowing it to reach further up than before, a guttural breath escaping her parted lips at the sensation. He then guided her to grind against him, causing his cock to swirl against her slick walls, her clitoris rubbing against his neat nest of black pubic hair delightfully.

Hooded hazel eyes were glazed over with lust as Octavia met his penetrating gaze, her stomach flipping instantly. The sheer passion in his eyes had her cunt quivering around him, her heart fluttering and stomach summersaulting. His handsomeness had reached new levels in that moment, for his uncombed black hair fell over his sweaty forehead, brushing over his brow, adding intensity to already fierce stare.

"Am … am I doing it right?" Octavia breathed, a fierce blush creeping up her cheeks as she ceased swaying. "It … feels right ..."

"It feels incredible," Mr Zabini corrected with a smirk, urging her to continue as he gently squeezed her waist.

A shrill squeak escaped her parted plump lips as his pelvic bone ground against her tingling clit, his engorged cock slamming upwards, causing her to bounce from the force of the sudden impact. Mr Zabini grinned widely at the glower she shot at him, a chuckle almost rumbling through him. Octavia scowled in vexation at the man, not appreciating the little surprise in the slightest.

Pushing himself to sit upright completely, Mr Zabini kissed her puckered lips teasingly, wrapping both arms around her slender figure.

"Don't be like that, My Lady," Mr Zabini purred, teasing her joyfully. "We were getting along so well."

"I do not appreciate your provocations, sir," Octavia scowled, Mr Zabini grinning against her lips.

"Oh, but I appreciate your stuck-up reactions to my provocations," Zabini laughed.

Mr Zabini saw her small smile, despite the lady attempting to resist the twist at her lips. He grinned even wider as he cradled her in his lap, grazing his lips over her jawline seductively. His arms tightened around the small of her back, gaining enough leverage to move them both in perfect unison.

Mr Zabini held their bodies close together, Octavia nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck as her arms snaked around his shoulders. With his firm hold, Mr Zabini raised her up, his cock slipping out of her core to the tip. As he pulled her back down upon him, he thrusted his hips upwards, slamming his every inch deep inside of her.

A sharp gasp pierced through his ears at the motion, but it was laced in the utmost of pleasure. Repeating the action, Mr Zabini ensured that his movement remained slow and passionate, kissing along her bare shoulder tenderly as he did so. Once their rhythm was discovered, Octavia began to bounce in perfect unison with his thrusts, her moans increasing in loudness and frequency.

It was mere seconds before she began to bounce and grind without care of judgement, utterly lost in their shared sensation of absolute pleasure. A hiss of escaped her mouth, bucking her hips frantically against his cock. Pleasure assaulted her body, setting every nerve ending on fire. Her cunt was aching for him, for him to fill her. And he did, with each and every stroke of his cock. Her walls clamped around his cock, spasms wracking her body as she arched against him.

"Cum for me, Octavia," he growled as he fucked her passionately, his tongue licking and teasing the base of her neck.

A guttural moan tore from her parted plump lips at his words, sending her over the edge. Her body quivered against his, her body curved over his, fingernails tearing desperately at his back. Mr Zabini groaned as he plunged his cock up inside of her quivering cunt, sheathing himself deep inside of her as her fresh elixir ran down his shaft.

Breathing harshly, Mr Zabini lifted her off of him before settling her back down, but his cock now rested on her belly. His hand shot between them, clasping onto his shaft firmly before he began to stroke himself quickly, his parted lips pressed against the soft skin of her neck. A deep, low, desperate groan rumbled through the man as he emptied his sticky warm load onto her torso, the liquid roping up to the underside of her breasts and coating her abdomen.

* * *

*.*.*

* * *

Mr Malfoy had drawn a bath for Hermione following their countless sinful act of the night, but it lasted only a few minutes before the desire took hold once more. Now, pale masculine hands gripped onto Hermione's waist firmly, holding her in place as she bounced repeatedly. Mr Malfoy sat on his knees between her spread legs, holding her lower body up with the grip on her waist, preventing her from being totally submerged in the water.

The nape of Hermione's neck rested on the edge of the bathtub, cushioned by a rolled up towel that Mr Malfoy had placed there. Her hands clutched onto the slippery sides of the tub, holding on tightly for balance as he pounded into her. The man himself remained snugly between her spread thighs, damp blonde hair falling over his forehead, a crease at his brow and lips parted to accommodate the harsh groans he released. But his groans of pleasure were almost drowned out by the mewling sounds of Hermione.

Each forceful thrust caused water to splash out of the bathtub and onto the floor. The sploshing and splashing sounds went ignored by the pair, neither caring that the tiles were drenched. A throaty moan tore through her throat at the sensations he stirred inside of her. Mr Malfoy's arm stretched out over Hermione's figure, his hand gripping onto the bathtub firmly, right beside her head. His other hand remained underwater, supporting her lower body up to allow optimal access with each thrust.

Hermione moaned as he slid his cock out of her slowly, Mr Malfoy's seductive groans rasping out, tickling through the air. She grunted as he slammed into her, pumping his engorged cock in and out of her desperately. Moans and growls, pants and whimpers filling the air around them, the water crashing over them violently, splashing onto the marble floor of the bathroom loudly.

Mr Malfoy's fierce silver eyes hungrily explored her body, drinking in every detail of the image. The water splashed over her body, droplets trickling down her torso, pooling in her little belly button. Her bare cunt glistened from the water and her own juices before a wave of bath water crashed over them again, shielding her body momentarily from his ravenous gaze. Her perfect soft breasts bounced from the sheer force of his thrusts; her parted pink lips uttered the sweetest moans and whimpers, making his cock jerk inside of her, desperately fighting off his next climax; her eyes shut in pure ecstasy, her wet tresses sticking to the sides of her face beautifully.

On their own accord, Hermione's legs stretched out over the sides of the tub, her feet rotating, her toes curling as he pounded into her tight cunt mercilessly. She felt like she was drowning in ecstasy as he pummelled her with his engorged cock, Mr Malfoy's gruff keening noises reaching her ears, feeding the pleasure pooling at her core.

She cried out, knowing her release was close, so desperate to reach it – to reach the sensations only he had ever given her.

Curving his body over hers, Mr Malfoy hovered his face a mere breath away from hers, his harsh pants brushing over her parted lips. Lightly, his tongue flicked out over her lips, removing the stray droplets of water from the pink plump skin as she gasped. His thrusts never ceased as took her bottom lip between his teeth and pulled delightfully at the flesh. It was not harsh or painful, but oh so brilliant and spectacular. Hermione wished she could have returned the almost-kiss, but found that she could barely keep her eyes open as the pleasure began to tighten excruciatingly at her core.

The fire inside of her began to rise dangerously, coursing through her veins, setting her nerves alight with pure ecstasy. She whimpered and moaned breathlessly, muttering strings of incomplete words as he pumped in and out of her, his teeth grazing against her lip. His fingers dug into her waist almost painfully, but it only added to the intense pleasure coursing through her body.

Moaning loudly and lustfully, Hermione relished in the delightful feeling his shaft brought to her, feeling it jerk and tense inside of her, knowing he was as close as she to the abyss. Her contracting cunt sending the same message. Hermione whimpered, her back arching, her toes curling as her orgasm no longer danced around her but crashed down on her with brutal force.

Crying out wantonly, Hermione fell over the edge, down into the pits of sinful pleasure, his shaft surging in and out of her urgently, entirely without rhythm. Their grunts and moans became more and more desperate with each thrust into her quivering cunt, her cum soaking his cock. Hermione felt the loss of his cock the moment he withdrew, his hand diving underwater to tug on his shaft only twice before his body tensed over hers.

A strangled, breathy combination of a grunt and a groan ripped through Mr Malfoy, his cum getting lost in the soapy waters that consumed them. His lips pressed harshly against hers, both panting into the other's mouth as the delightful sensations still surged inside of them, plaguing their tense bodies. Mr Malfoy pressed the head of his cock against her soaked opening again and slipped back inside as his body relaxed over hers.

Mr Malfoy pressed his lips further hers as they breathed unevenly into each other's mouths, their tongues meeting in the centre. He panted harshly as he slammed into her one final time, feeling her pulsating walls constrict around him. His engorged member filled her completely, stretching her wholly. Their lips remained connected, kissing softly as their bodies calmed against each other, the gentleman still fully sheathed inside of her, his cock jerking against her walls.

The feel of his shaft beginning to soften relieved her raw core from the stretching sensation that now bordered on painful. For Hermione, the licentious deeds of the night were a close, for she was surely unable to proceed any further without increasing the pain. Mr Malfoy seemed to sense her train of thought, or perhaps came to the realisation himself. Either way, he slipped out of her slowly, ensuring that the friction didn't agitate her further. But he was sure to steal a lingering, tender kiss before he untangled himself from her fully.

Despite the expected shame of what she had done with the gentleman, Hermione felt no such thing. In fact, she felt as though she had given into her carnal desires for once in her life, which was the truth. For once in her life, Hermione had thrown caution to the wind and indulged in her body's needs.

For once, Hermione had given herself to a man. She just hoped that the man she had given herself to was worth the mark on her purity.

* * *

The silence between them was considerably relaxed and tranquil, all animosity having been fucked away in its literal sense of the word. No shame encompassed either of them as they lay on the mattress, with only the glow of the lantern light flatteringly dancing over their naked bodies.

Mr Zabini lay on his back smoking a cigarette, his free hand tangled in the dishevelled curls of the lady. Octavia rested on top of him, chest to chest, the side of her face pressed just beneath his pecks as her knees bent, her feet swaying in the air. Her slender finger traced over the scattered scars on his chest, some long and thick, others so miniscule that they were barely noticeable at all. Mr Zabini's fingers massaged her scalp in the most delightfully tranquil of ways, her eyelids frequently fluttering at the pleasantness of the sensations.

Neither had spoken since their final promiscuous deed had ended over thirty minutes ago. They fell into a silence that was free of all awkwardness and unease. Octavia perhaps should be utterly ashamed of herself, and maybe she would be in the light of the morning, but in that moment she was anything but. In fact, she was perfectly relaxed, content, but a little sore at her core.

Black eyes, obscured by a cloud of cigarette smoke, watched Octavia's feet fidget and sway in the air, finding the scene rather like a visual lullaby. Craning his neck slightly, Mr Zabini moved in an unnoticeable way to catch a glimpse of her small buttocks. The mounds were milky white and perfectly smooth, firm and soft. His appreciative gaze shifted up to her lower back dimples, finding that they were most alluring and, frankly, adorable. He had seen them before on a handful of his conquests, but had taken a newfound appreciation for the features in that moment. Perhaps purely due to the fact that they showed on the back of his desire's object? Yes. That was most definitely it.

Mr Zabini was not ashamed of his romantic sentiments toward the Lady of much higher standing than him. He was not embarrassed of the true depths of his feelings in her regard, for to him, it did not affect his masculinity in any manner. Mr Zabini fancied himself in love. The mere fact that he had remained in her company following their physical unity was evidence enough to support his belief. But, in truth, he had known prior to their coitus.

"Mr Zabini?" Octavia whispered, tracing a particularly long scar with her fingertip.

"I believe we have surpassed formal addresses, Octavia," Mr Zabini said between puffs of his cigarette. "Particularly when it is only the two of us."

"Blaise," Octavia corrected herself, her tone incredibly timid, her face heating with the blush that crept up her cheeks.

"Yes?" Blaise smirked, inhaling a deep drag of his cigarette, his free hand still massaging her scalp gently.

"You claimed in the parlour room …" Octavia began, faltering as her voice briefly failed her. "You claimed that … my father employed you, sir."

"I did," Blaise nodded, stretching out his arm to butt out his cigarette on the nightstand.

"Was that the truth, sir?"

"I only speak the truth," Blaise said, now using both his hands to massage her scalp, causing her toes to flex and curl as they remained in the air.

"Yesterday, sir, you inquired as to the cause of my brother's death," Octavia frowned, staring at the scars. "You asked when it occurred, and earlier this morning you asked me to explain how my brother perished."

Blaise hummed, indicating that he followed so far, permitting her to continue.

"You were testing me, sir, weren't you?" Octavia whispered sadly, her finger ceasing its trail over his scar. "You were aware of the truth of the matter, yet you asked me to present my deceit."

"Yes." Blaise smirked, watching as she shifted off of him, the lady clutching the sheets against her body. Octavia flicked her wild curls over her shoulder as she met his stare, the lady sitting on her knees, facing him.

"Why?" Octavia frowned, betrayal shining in her captivating hazel eyes.

"Why," Blaise repeated with a smirk, his fingers resting on her thigh. "A very vague question you present me with."

"Why did you interrogate me if you already knew the truth?" Octavia elaborated.

"To see if you would speak the truth," Blaise shrugged, his hand moving further up her sticky inner thigh suggestively. "You did not."

"Are you surprised?" Octavia asked with genuine concern and interest.

"No," Blaise grinned, pushing himself to sit upright. "You are a lady who values reputation, and considers it to be of the upmost importance. Your lies are in accordance with the preservation of your prestige."

Octavia nodded as her gaze flickered to his hand on her thigh, watching as it disappeared beneath the sheets to her core. She made no move to prevent it.

"Your actions, on the other hand, present a great threat to your prestige," Blaise whispered seductively, cupping her bare core suggestively. "With a lowly street boy, no less."

"You are insatiable, sir," Octavia sniffed snootily, shooting the grinning Italian a hard glare, but her thighs spread a little to allow him further accessibility. "Your stamina is most astounding."

At that, Blaise slipped his middle finger into slick heat, earning a gasp from the beauty from the intrusion.

"And you are such a contrast to what you pretend to be," Blaise grinned, moving to kneel in front of her, his finger working her raw nerves expertly. "Do not think I did not notice, _My Lady_."

"Notice?" Octavia breathed, hooded eyes gazing at the arrogant man, his muscular arm moving in perfect unison with the finger pumping in and out of her.

"You did not have a maidenhead," Blaise grinned wickedly, his thumb brushing over her swollen nub as his finger continued to torture her delightfully. "You are not what you appear to be, Octavia, and it satisfies me greatly to see you as you truly are."

"And what am I?" Octavia gasped, rocking her hips in perfect time with his hand.

Blaise grazed his lips over her parted ones, his tongue darting out to taste hers as she moaned wantonly. He grinned against her lips, relishing in the sweet melody of her moans of pleasure at his touch, watching her brows furrow intently.

"You are a woman who comes undone to a hand that has taken the lives of so many." Blaise purred against her lips, her harsh breaths raking through the air as he increased the speed of his ministrations. "You are a woman who invites a contract killer to touch her body. You are a woman I love."

"Whom," Octavia corrected breathlessly before a guttural groan tore through her, her body assaulted with her countless orgasm of the night.

* * *

Hermione Granger had always been of the belief that the man she offered her maidenhead to would be the man she would marry. It was a belief instilled into her very being from the moment of her birth, and one she had never wavered from. For to offer one's maidenhead to a man was an act so intimate that it should only be performed out of soul-deep love.

It was disappointing that she had dismissed her beliefs in a moment of fear and vulnerability. Hermione did not regret her actions with Mr Malfoy, but she suddenly became very aware of the severity of her decision. Now, if a man wished to court and wed her, he would expect her maidenhead and virtue to be wholly intact.

To say that the reality was troubling would be a massive understatement. As a working-class woman, Hermione didn't have many attractive attributes to potential suitors. She worked in fancy estates as governess, therefore she was able to demonstrate appropriate parenting skills prematurely. This was her primary attraction. Other than that, Hermione didn't have much to offer a suitor, for she had no money, no dowry, and no maidenhead.

With those thoughts buzzing in her weary mind, Hermione turned her face to the side, her gaze fixing on Mr Malfoy immediately. The gentleman slept soundly beside her in the bed, laying on his side, arm and leg draped over her form. Hermione lay on her back, previously gazing up at the ceiling, but now assessing Mr Malfoy's handsome features intently. Whilst the man had treated her with respect and courtesy, he had permitted – in fact, _initiated_ – their licentious deeds. A true gentleman would not have done so.

The tale of his upbringing sprung to mind. The man had been raised in a brothel, so it was understandable that out of wedlock coitus was not taboo to him. He was a product of his earlier environment. His career alone supported that theory. But Hermione couldn't prevent the worrisome thoughts from flittering in her mind. As he was the type of man to bed a woman and kill one, he was hardly the type to marry.

Not that Hermione wished to marry the man or anything …

Her train of thought merely entertained the idea. If they were to marry – which she knew would not occur – he would hardly be an upstanding husband. Gone for God knows how long at a time, Mr Malfoy would continue in his despicable career, killing innocents (and some guilty persons, possibly?) for money. Perhaps he would bed other women in his travels? Hermione didn't know.

That's when realisation truly struck her. Mr Malfoy could very well already be married to a woman. He may have a family; a wife and children. Maybe Hermione was another faceless woman he had bedded during his travels? When it came down to the truth of the matter, Hermione realised – she did not know this man at all. She only knew of his apparent chivalry and charm. So much so that it had wooed her into bed with him … and the wall, and bathtub, and at one point, the floor.

For the first time in Hermione's life, she felt like a fool.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

The days were increasingly tedious and dreadfully long at the Koppsynn château. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were uncomfortable affairs for a number of reasons. Firstly, all appeared to harbour mistrusts for their meals, lest they be poisoned like Mr Wilby's whiskey. Secondly, each seemed to suspect those around them, everyone mentally questioning and assessing the others. Finally, there were not many more topics of conversations to entertain, making their shared meals thick with the most awkward of silences.

The storm outside, however, provided the survivors with a glimmer of hope. Mr Malfoy had been correct in his prediction that the storm was passing, for the clouds were moving off out into the sea. Alas, it remained dreary on the island, so for Mr Malfoy to swim to the mainland before the storm dispersed entirely would be wholly hazardous. He had offered another prediction in regards to the storm, declaring that he would begin his water journey to the mainland the following morning.

Hermione was eternally grateful to the man for his grand gesture of rescue. If he was successful in reaching the mainland, they would be rescued by boat by nightfall. If he departed the next day, there was a greater chance of all surviving the horrendous experience on Durrem Island.

Alas, Hermione was not joyously celebrating the glimmer of hope within her, nor the appreciation to Mr Malfoy for his offer to swim to the mainland. The memories of what had transpired between them the night prior were flashing in her mind repeatedly, never allowing her modicum of relief. Images of herself and Mr Malfoy making love for hours on end continued to assault her weary mind, and taunted her morals incessantly.

Doubts of Mr Malfoy's intentions toward her were prevalent as ever. For that reason, Hermione had yet to converse with the man since they had awoken that morning. In fact, she had made it her priority to avoid him at all costs – a difficult task, considering all survivors remained in each other's company for the 'safety in numbers' comfort. But there was no safety in numbers – Mr Wilby's public death supported that.

Regardless, all remaining guests at the château had found themselves occupying the ballroom – a grand and opulent room, mirrored with fine paintings, roofed with chandeliers, lined with marble statues of exquisite detail, and filled with scattered circular tables. The massive bar at the end of the grand room was currently surrounded by Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter and Mr Zabini, the three pouring drinks of the finest wines and whiskeys for all.

Hermione explored the room with Lady Sinclair, listening to the woman's drawl as she expressed her expert opinion on the paintings and brushworks. Well, Hermione wasn't actually listening to the woman of status. Yes, she nodded and hummed whenever the lady offered her opinion, but her attention was on the demoralised Miss Weasley seated at a table, mirroring the sheer definition of melancholy. Visually, Hermione was able to asses that Miss Weasley had not found sufficient sleep the night prior. Then again, neither had Hermione, but for reasons other than fear and gloom.

"Lady Sinclair," a smooth voice sounded out, catching the attention of the two woman.

Hermione and Octavia turned around to face the gentleman, Mr Zabini meeting Octavia's gaze as he smirked instinctually.

"Yes, Mr Zabini?" Octavia drawled expectantly, no hint of shame or affection betraying her.

"Would you care to dance?"

"To what music, sir?" Octavia quirked her brow, patronising him expertly.

"There is a gramophone by the bar," Mr Zabini smirked, Hermione feeling a little uncomfortable with the chemistry buzzing between the two. "There are several records to choose from."

"If you insist," Octavia sighed gracefully, waving her hand to dismiss the gentleman. "Anything but jazz will suffice. I do loathe that tasteless racket."

Mr Zabini grinned widely as he nodded once in approval. But Hermione knew that he didn't approve of the Lady's opinion on jazz. How could he? It was exciting music, completely fresh and innovative. It was splendid.

Mr Zabini expressed no such opinion, however, and strode away to the bar, presumably to fiddle with the gramophone. Averting her eyes from Mr Malfoy across the room, Hermione ignored his attempt to catch her gaze. Hermione took the presented opportunity, and excused herself from the presence of Lady Sinclair in order to approach Miss Weasley.

Suddenly, a beautiful harmonious tune sang out through the ballroom, but it was no ordinary melody. The music was undoubtedly jazz. While the melody possessed a gradual and sweet beat, it was a smooth jazz that allowed its listeners to dance romantically together.

Lady Sinclair wore the expression of one who had sucked the juice from a lemon. Utterly displeased. Mr Zabini, however, grinned widely, seemingly proud of his slight provocation presented to the lady he so fancied. As he approached Octavia, the gentleman continued to grin as he bowed before extending his hand to her.

"You wish me to dance to this racket, sir?" Octavia sniffed, ignoring his extended hand.

"What kind of man would I be if I didn't ask a lady to dance?" Mr Zabini teased, his hand remaining offered to the woman.

"The kind you so clearly are, Mr Zabini," Octavia drawled coolly, but placed her hand in his.

After his long, tanned fingers clasped around her slender hand, Mr Zabini stepped backwards toward the centre of the ballroom, guiding the snooty lady with him. When they reached the centre, Mr Zabini yanked Octavia against him, taking a formal dancing stance, their bodies a few inches apart. Despite the cordial distance between them as they began to sway to the music, Octavia noticed that Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter were observing the pair from the bar. If she were to interpret Mr Malfoy's gaze, she would regard it as one of disapproval, which was peculiar, for the man didn't seem to harbour any dislike for her.

Dismissing the troubling stare, Octavia flickered her gaze back up to her dance partner, discovering that he was already staring at her. Mr Zabini's black eyes captured her gaze instantly, but only due to the sheer intensity of his stare. It was clear that he was assessing her; calculating. But for what purpose, she did not know.

"You look ravishing, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini said, but Octavia suspected that his words were not manifestations of his mysterious thoughts.

"False flattery, sir. I do begrudge you, for you are the cause of my hideous appearance on this day, Mr Zabini. If you were able to keep those wicked hands to yourself, I may not have to wear the resemblance of scruffy vermin."

Mr Zabini smirked deviously, swaying her perfectly to the melodic tune echoing through the ballroom.

"You pretend to harbour resentment," Mr Zabini replied, "but I must argue – I expect you are reliving our deeds in your mind as we speak. I'd wager that you are aching for me, Lady Sinclair."

"Sir," Octavia smiled falsely up at him, "you are confusing your own desires with mine. I assure you, the only activity I wish to indulge in is nothing more than twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep on a boat leaving this island."

"Then that is what you shall receive," Mr Zabini promised, twirling her around before pulling her back into their dancing posture.

Octavia nodded once, but failed to be wholly reassured by his words. For all she knew, the next victim of the mysterious killer would fall within the hour, perhaps minute. It was all unknown until it occurred. And there was a very great possibility that she could be the next victim.

At least Octavia could take a sliver of comfort – however small – in the knowledge that Mr Zabini had taken a liking to her. At least a gentleman with such precise expertise had declared his love for her. For it gave her a slice of hope that she would make it off Durrem Island in one, living, breathing, surviving piece.

*.*.*

Hermione seated herself next to Miss Weasley at the table, her mind churning through a dozen possible conversation starters. Hermione wished to simply ask how the woman was feeling, but it was a silly and obvious question, for the response was clear on the woman's miserable expression. Also, it was fairly reasonable to assume that, given the circumstances, Ginevra was not feeling so great. In fact, Hermione suspected that none of them were, except Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini. The two gentlemen always appeared to be relaxed and perfectly at ease.

As she mentally constructed sentences in her head, Hermione watched as Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair danced together in the centre of the ballroom. She wasn't exactly interested in watching the pair dance, but her gaze had wandered to them regardless. It was the only source of entertainment in the ballroom, for Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter remained silent by the bar further down the room, and Ginevra had yet to speak.

Settling for a feeble conversation starter, Hermione shifted in her chair to face the pale red-head.

"Did you sleep well?" Hermione asked unsurely, loathing herself for the sheer awkwardness of her inquiry.

"As well as one can," Ginevra mumbled bitterly, "when a killer is on the loose, hunting us all down like wild animals in a cage."

Hermione nodded slightly, pursing her lips together as she glanced over at Mr Potter. The bespectacled police officer seemed to be assessing her from a distance, narrowed green eyes darting between herself and Ginevra. Returning her attention back to Ginevra, Hermione continued in her futile attempt to converse with the woman.

"Mr Potter seems to have taken a fondness to you," Hermione observed.

"A fondness?" Ginevra scoffed, her blue eyes fixed on the table top. "We are mere allies, nothing more."

"Allies," Hermione repeated, her brows furrowing together. "Are we not allies as a group?"

"No." Ginevra clipped. "We are not."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because someone in this group is the killer," Ginevra said, turning to face Hermione. "I will not align myself with the culprit behind this disastrous situation, for it would only increase my vulnerability to danger."

"I have been giving the matter some thought," Hermione said softly, attempting to comfort the woman with her gentle tone. "I do not believe that the killer is among us. I believe that the killer is on this island, yes, but not one of us."

"Elaborate," Ginevra permitted, seemingly interested in hearing the more comforting of theories.

"We have already concluded that Lady Parkinson is at the centre of most crimes, no?" Hermione said, Ginevra nodding once in response. "That makes her the victim and the innocent, as we have already ascertained. If she was still alive, I would have suspected Lady Parkinson to be the culprit, but she is not. We all saw her body, and Mr Malfoy checked her pulse to determine the authenticity of her demise, so it is not possible that she tricked us. Which brings me to my conclusion – I believe the killer is allied with Lady Parkinson in a way. Perhaps an uncle, or a relative of some sort? I do not think they intended for Lady Parkinson to die, but it occurred, and now they are merely carrying out their plan regardless."

"We have searched the island," Ginevra countered. "Before the storm came, the men searched for Mr Nott, and found nothing. They found no other homes, or cottages, or caves. The killer cannot simply be hiding on the island, Hermione."

"I believe the killer is hiding in the château." Hermione countered. "We have searched the manor, but only once. We have both resided in homes such as this before due to our professions of service. We are both aware that homes like this one can have many secret compartments and passageways within them. I believe that the killer is here, and is watching us."

"How do you propose that we are being observed?" Ginevra quirked her brow. "We would notice a stranger hiding behind a statue, Hermione."

"What of the paintings?" Hermione whispered, pointedly glancing at the paintings lining the walls of the ballroom. "Every room in this château has grand artwork within. There could be eye-holes in some of them. That is merely a thought, however."

"An undeniably persuading thought," Ginevra approved, shiftily glancing at the paintings on the wall before her gaze rested on Octavia. "I have a counter theory for you, Hermione."

"I would be most grateful to learn of it, Ginevra."

"Lady Sinclair," Ginevra whispered, meeting Hermione's surprised stare. "I am aware of your growing bond with the Lady, but perhaps that is merely serving to thwart your suspicions in her direction."

"You suspect Lady Octavia to be the killer?"

"I do." Ginevra nodded. "As does Mr Potter."

"I apologise, Ginevra, but I cannot agree."

"What sort of man or woman could have the resources to orchestrate this trap?" Ginevra quirked her brow. "Only one of power and incredible wealth. For argument's sake, let us say that Lady Sinclair is the killer. It would make sense, for she is the only person alive that could pay off enough people to initiate her plans. I think she is behind this deplorable game, and I think she hired Mr Zabini to assist her."

"And what of Mr Malfoy?"

"He is in on it," Ginevra nodded. "I believe the three of them are in cahoots, Hermione. Lady Sinclair could easily afford to pay their fees for their assistance, buy a château and even the island, all to enact her revenge."

"And Lady Parkinson?"

"Mr Potter suggested that Lady Parkinson had agreed to the plan beforehand," Ginevra explained. "However, as the paranoia increased, and the truths were revealed, her fragile mind gave way to complete depression and hysteria. The Lady was …. in a similar state at the asylum. One week, she would demonstrate vast signs of improvement, only to have a dream about her mother or father, and would breakdown all over again. I think that is what has happened here."

"If what you are suggesting is correct, then how can you be certain that Mr Malfoy honestly assessed Lady Parkinson's suicide?" Hermione argued. "Do you disagree that she truly committed suicide?"

"I do not. Mr Potter also assessed her body," Ginevra explained. "Additionally, I saw it with my own eyes, as did you. If I hadn't, and it was only Mr Malfoy's word to go on, I would consider the prospect that she faked her death in order to trick us. However, I do not believe that to be the case."

Hermione went to respond, but her peripheral vision was caught by the approaching Lady Sinclair. Unwilling to further discuss Ginevra's ludicrous theories in front of the lady, Hermione cleared her throat, alerting Ginevra to the approaching company.

"Well," Lady Sinclair breathed, feigning exhaustion as she seated herself across from the women. "Mr Zabini's fondness for jazz may be the death of me."

"You think it appropriate to jest about death in our circumstances, My Lady?" Ginevra asked, pointedly glancing at Hermione as though her theory had just been proven beyond doubt.

Lady Sinclair frowned at the woman curiously before shifting in her seat and raising her nose snootily in the air.

"I will jest in regards to whichever topic takes my fancy, Miss Weasley." Octavia drawled importantly, demonstrating her higher status with her snobbery.

Ginevra and Octavia entered into a steely stare for a moment. But it passed quickly, for Ginevra bowed her head once in submission, not allowing herself to demonstrate signs of insolence. Ultimately, Lady Sinclair was Ginevra's superior, and should be respected accordingly within the boundaries of their social encounters. Even if their situation was less than typical.

Hermione only paid the matter brief attention, for Mr Malfoy had gathered her attention suddenly. The gentleman didn't purposefully catch her notice, but as he walked by the table she sat at, Hermione couldn't help but observe him. Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini remained silent, neither conversing with the other, as they departed the ballroom, but for what purpose, no one knew. Mr Potter used the leave to approach the women at the table, but Hermione paid him no mind, and instead, stared at the doors of the ballroom with narrowed eyes.

"They've gone to prepare dinner," Mr Potter informed gruffly, addressing all occupants of the table.

"Wonderful," Octavia smiled, genuinely pleased. "I am famished."

"Why did they go together?" Ginevra asked, suspecting the answers relative to her theory already. That much was clear as she smirked knowingly at Mr Potter, who in turn, shared her suspicions.

"Safety," Octavia shrugged gracefully. "I would not wish to wander the château unaccompanied, and would prefer a chaperone. It is understandable that they have decided to journey to the kitchen together."

"Maybe," Mr Potter nodded, entirely unconvinced. "Or maybe they've gone to kill."

"Kill who, Mr Potter?" Octavia laughed. "We are all seated around this table, so who, may I ask, do you suspect they are targeting?"

"The dinner!" Ginevra gasped, eyes wide and almost bulging out of her head. "They will poison the dinner!"

"Oh, please," Octavia sighed, waving her hand dismissively. "Your hysteria is becoming most tiresome, Miss Weasley. Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini are not behind this shambles, and I would appreciate that you accept the fact quickly. If I have to endure your paranoia much longer, I will surely go mad."

"Of course you would say that," Mr Potter gruffed. "Nice and close with them, aren't you?"

"First of all, Mr Potter, when you address me, you will do so properly." Octavia drawled. "Secondly, I do hope that you are not insinuating what I suspect you are, sir. Thirdly, please shut up – you are quite the bore."

"Excuse me," Hermione whispered, rising from her chair, gaze glued to the doors. "I wish to use the powder room."

"I will accompany you, Miss Granger," Octavia nodded, making to stand from her chair before Hermione stopped her.

"No need, My Lady," Hermione said. "A moment of solitude is greatly desired."

Lady Sinclair raised her perfectly sculpted brows at the woman, half risen from her chair. After a brief pause, the lady nodded once before seating herself, but now possessed a most displeased expression on her pretty face.

Hermione inclined her head respectfully at the lady, but Lady Sinclair snubbed the gesture entirely. Thinning her lips slightly, Hermione hovered for a second before she took her leave, striding out of the ballroom and into the corridor alone. As the doors clicked shut behind her, Hermione abruptly took off at a jog through the hallways, hurrying through the manor, down towards the kitchens.

Due to her incessant inner speculations of Mr Malfoy, she found that his departure from the ballroom was a most tempting opportunity. To not follow and eavesdrop on the man whilst he was in the company of his closest companion would be an absolute waste indeed. Hermione was determined to learn what she could about Mr Malfoy, and it was the optimal moment to do so.

It took Hermione eleven minutes to reach the staff quarters, therefore she slowed her pace to a tip-toe, ensuring that the clacking of her heels did not give her away. As she snuck through the dimly lit corridor, Hermione attempted to soothe her rapid breathing, praying that the harsh sounds did not reveal her presence. A jolt of adrenaline surged through her body as she heard a loud clanging noise vibrating out, but relaxed slightly as she realised that it would have merely been a pan or pot.

Creeping into the galley section of the massive kitchen, Hermione followed the muffled sounds of deep voices, recognising them to be Mr Malfoy's and Mr Zabini's. She slinked further into the dark room before hiding behind a large pantry, concealing herself entirely should they enter the galley. The sound of plate breaking shattered through the air, Hermione using the opportunity to slide down the wall, further minimalizing her noticeability, her dress rustling at the movement.

"Be careful with that," Mr Zabini's voice snapped, palpably annoyed. "That's Lady Sinclair's favourite bowl."

"You must be joking," Mr Malfoy retorted, no hint of humour in his cool tone. "It is a bowl. I'm sure your precious Lady Sinclair will make do with another one."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Mr Zabini replied, Hermione almost hearing his smirk. "She's quite the princess."

"Snob." Mr Malfoy corrected. "She is an entitled, sheltered snob, born with a silver spoon in her mouth."

"I never claimed otherwise," Mr Zabini chuckled lightly.

"Why do you waste your time with her?" Mr Malfoy asked, the clattering sounds of pots and pans clanging out. "Surely she is not worth the bother."

"Of course she is," Mr Zabini argued. "The lady infuriates me, maddens me, and delights me. It is certainly worth the bother."

"Do you care for her?"

"I do. Very much so, in fact."

"To what extent?"

"I would estimate the same extent of your sentiments regarding Miss Granger," Mr Zabini said, a hint of warning to his previously humorous tone.

"That is quite the declaration," Mr Malfoy said. "For I care a great deal for the woman."

"Precisely," Mr Zabini said. "I do not insult your sentiments toward Miss Granger, therefore I would appreciate you displaying the same respect toward myself."

"You must understand, Blaise. More is at stake than your emotions toward a snob."

"The same could be said for Miss Granger, no?"

"Hardly." Mr Malfoy countered. "My intentions toward Miss Granger are achievable."

"What are you saying?" Mr Zabini asked dangerously, a darkness to his tone.

"You know what I am saying, Blaise." Mr Malfoy sighed. "Lady Sinclair is using you, and we both know it."

"I do not believe that, Draco."

"You should. You'd be a fool not to, and you are no fool, Blaise. Why, of all people, times and places, must you be so blinded?"

"I am not blinded," Mr Zabini retorted. "I see her for what she is, and I know of the things she has done. I am very aware."

"You think you are, but you are not." Mr Malfoy countered. "Lady Sinclair is entertaining an intimate affair with you to protect herself from harm. With you under the false impression that she shares your sentiments, she is safe. She is a cunning woman, and is using you as a human shield in the face of danger."

"So what if she is? It would be a smart move for her to make."

"Yes," Mr Malfoy agreed. "But what of when we leave this island? Do you truly believe that Lady Sinclair will continue to entertain you as a suitor?"

"Yes."

"There." Mr Malfoy said. "That is you as a blind fool, Blaise. Of all the years I have known you, I've never witnessed such idiocy from you. Lady Sinclair will return to her life if you get her off this island, and she will not think twice about leaving you out in the cold afterwards. You are poor by her standards, you have come from the streets and a brothel, and you are a contract killer. A lady like Sinclair is not attainable to a man like yourself, Blaise."

"You are quite the sceptic," Mr Zabini said, but his voice was much quieter than before. Hermione couldn't help but think that he was … hurt.

"Ask her." Mr Malfoy suggested. "Ask her to marry you, and you will learn of her true intentions. The lady will reject your proposal, and you will discover that you have been pursuing an unattainable woman."

"It is too soon to propose," Mr Zabini countered, but doubt laced his tone palpably.

"Too soon for yourself, or Lady Sinclair?"

"For her," Mr Zabini answered. "A woman like that needs to be wooed. If I ask her now, she will reject me."

"Then continue as you are," Mr Malfoy sighed. "When she dismisses you without care, just know how much you have sacrificed for a woman who does not return your feelings."

"Sacrificed," Mr Zabini repeated, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "That advice goes both ways, Draco."

"In fact, it does not." Mr Malfoy argued. "I am certain that Miss Granger will accept my courtship following our departure."

"And what are your intentions with Miss Granger?" Zabini retorted. "Marry her?"

"Yes."

"You think she will accept you?" Zabini mocked, but Hermione suspected that his harshness stemmed from his own hurt. "You think that she will accept your profession?"

"It hasn't hindered my progress with her thus far," Mr Malfoy said.

"Perhaps for the same reasons you are firing at Lady Sinclair." Zabini countered. "Perhaps Miss Granger is only entertaining you out of fear for her life? Protection possesses its allure, Draco. We have learned that before with many women, so what is different about this one?"

"What is different?" Mr Malfoy scoffed. "Merely the fact that I return this woman's sentiments, and that I actually intend to save her, unlike the others."

"Talk to me about sacrifices when we leave this island," Zabini said. "Until then, let us both continue to pursue our respective women, and do what we must in the interim."

The two gentlemen fell silent, no longer conversing as the sounds of pots and pans rang out again. Hermione lingered for a few moments, hoping that they would continue the discussion, but realised that Mr Zabini's words had ended it for the time being.

Pushing herself from the nook she crouched in, Hermione crept out of the galley silently, her thoughts on the conversation she had heard. Whilst she had learned that Mr Malfoy's intentions toward her were not what she had thought, it didn't ease the doubt in her mind. The talk of sacrifices was troubling to Hermione, for she couldn't fathom what they were referring to. Nothing sprung to mind as she mulled over their discussion, departing the staff quarters stealthily. Eavesdropping on the two men had left her with more doubts and questions that she initially had.

It was all very mysterious.

* * *

Following the lengthiest and most tedious day, Octavia had retired to her bedroom as night took over the sky. Nothing of noticeable significance had happened that day, which only added to the unease in the château. Nobody had fallen victim to the Reaper, for the killer had not come to collect. Octavia didn't necessarily want someone to die, but the fact that no one did had increased her fear considerably. The anticipation was torture.

Mr Zabini had escorted her to the bedroom, and presumptuously settled himself in the bed. The handsome gentleman lit himself a cigarette as he sprawled out on the mattress, his dark gaze following her wherever she went. Octavia could feel his eyes on her as she confidently changed into her nightwear in front of him, dismissing her bashfulness as he had already seen every inch of her naked body the night prior.

Unlike the night prior, Mr Zabini made no move to seduce her. But Octavia suspected that he sensed her less than receptive mood that evening, and remained silent as he lay shirtless on the bed, leaning against the headboard leisurely.

There was something new in the atmosphere between them, but Octavia couldn't ascertain what it was. It almost felt calculating. It almost felt like he was assessing her, figuring her out as though she was a complex puzzle. It was rather peculiar, but Octavia didn't mention it. She merely pretended that she felt no taint in the atmosphere at all.

Sighing quietly to herself, Octavia stepped in front of the vanity desk, eyeing her appearance in the mirror. The reflection showed Mr Zabini regarding her still, but she only briefly glanced at the man before returning her gaze to her wildly free curls. Bunching up the tresses in her hands, Octavia tried to pull the curly mess atop her head to fasten them for the night.

"Leave them down," Mr Zabini said between inhales of his cigarette.

Octavia met his stare in the reflection of the mirror, her hands still fisted in her curls as she considered his request – or demand. After a pause, Octavia shrugged and dropped her hands to her sides, watching in the mirror as her curls fell back into place.

"Better," Mr Zabini nodded, butting out his cigarette on the nightstand.

"Mr Zabini," Octavia sighed, turning to face the tanned gentleman. "I wish to clarify with you – I do not desire any intimate or physical unities between us tonight."

"Are you kicking me out?" Mr Zabini smirked, reclining on his mountain of pillows.

"No," Octavia smiled slightly, walking toward the bed in only her nightslip.

"I'm glad," he grinned. "Your bed is much comfier than my own."

"Oh, I see." Octavia sang, climbing onto the bed. "You do not wish to spend the night with myself, but with my bed, sir."

"Precisely," he grinned, pulling her to straddle his lap. "You are only the bonus."

"Quite an extraordinary bonus, one might say," Octavia sniffed, flicking her curls over her shoulder.

"Indeed," Mr Zabini laughed, running his hands up and down the sides of her smooth thighs. "Is there any particular reason my bonus doesn't wish to indulge herself in decadent affairs?"

The humorous glint in her hazel eyes faded swiftly, Octavia's smile faltering and morphing into puckered lips instead. Averting her gaze from his, Octavia rested her eyes on his bare chest as she fidgeted with the bunched up hem of her nightslip.

"I am afraid," Octavia answered honestly.

"You were afraid yesterday," he countered.

"It is a different fear today," Octavia whispered, frowning as she attempted to comprehend her own understanding. "Yesterday, Mr Wilby was killed in front of me – in front of everyone, sir. Yet, no one has perished today. I feel as though the killer is taunting us … Perhaps waiting for us to relax or gather hope …"

"You think the killer will strike again," Zabini nodded, finishing her train of thought. "It is a reasonable assumption, and one that I share. However, I am certain that it will not be you who falls next."

"How can you be sure, sir?"

"I am protecting you," Zabini said calmly. "Under my protection, no harm will come to you. I will ensure your safety, and we will leave this island."

"I do hope you are right, sir." Octavia said.

"Enough," Zabini sighed, running his hands up and down her thighs gently. "Not a soul is in this room with us, Octavia. You may call me by my birth name."

"Apologies," Octavia smiled softly. "It is but a mere habit to address gentlemen by their surnames and formal titles."

"I can think of so many other habits to replace it with," Zabini smirked. "Alas, not tonight."

"Not tonight," Octavia confirmed, smiling at the man.

"What of when we leave the island?"

"Pardon me?" Octavia frowned, blinking stupidly at the gentleman.

"When I get you off this island, Octavia," Zabini said, his dark gaze assessing her intently, hands still brushing over her thighs, "what will transpire then?"

"You present me with impossible questions, sir."

"It is hardly impossible," Mr Zabini countered, his jaw ticking slightly. "I wish to know what will occur between us after we return to our lives. A rather simple question, I believe."

"Simple for you, sir." Octavia muttered, fiddling with the skirt of her nightslip. "For me, it is an extraordinarily challenging question that I will require time to contemplate."

Octavia felt him stiffen, and sensed the shift in the atmosphere between them. It was obvious that he was displeased with her response, and had perhaps expected another response altogether. But she gave him the only answer she could in that moment.

"Am I beneath you? Is that it?" Mr Zabini asked coolly, his hands stilling on her thighs.

"Yes." Octavia whispered, her response entirely honest – she knew that he at least deserved the truth. "It … For you to court me, sir, my father must permit it, which he will never do with a gentleman of your origin, status, or upbringing."

"Origin?" Mr Zabini repeated, his voice low and beyond dangerous.

"Your … ethnicity, sir." Octavia whispered ashamedly, her cheeks flushed. "It is no matter to myself, but to my father and … my family … to those in my society, it matters a great deal. Additionally, your upbringing in London is not one that my father or society will favour, and your status is far too low for my father to consider otherwise."

"You speak as though your racist, blue-blooded father has total control over your choices," Mr Zabini clipped crisply.

"He does," Octavia frowned. "My father is in control of my every life decision."

"Only if you wish to remain under his influence," Mr Zabini countered. "If you are willing to forgo your inheritance, your father will have no control over your actions – he will have no control over _us_."

"My inheritance … is important to me," Octavia admitted, complete shame glistening in her sad hazel eyes. "My status, lifestyle, society, family and wealth are very important to me."

"More so than I," Mr Zabini said bitterly, his jaw clenched tightly as his eyes darkened.

"I am sorry," Octavia breathed, meeting his furious black eyes. "I am so very sorry, Mr Zabini. I did not wish to lure you into a false understanding of my intentions."

"Regardless of your intentions, My Lady, you did." Mr Zabini retorted, gently pushing her off of his body.

Octavia watched sadly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed before standing. He kept his back to her as he grabbed his shirt and pulled it onto his body aggressively. Once he had dressed himself, – completely interrupted by the silent Octavia – Mr Zabini grabbed his gun and cigarettes from the nightstand, turning to face her.

Their gazes met for only a moment before Octavia averted her eyes to the mattress, for he wore an expression of pure disdain, his black eyes betraying the sliver of hurt within him. Octavia only caught a glimpse of it, for he stormed off in a mere second, barging out of the bedroom, anger thrashing around him like the darkest and most dangerous of auras. The aura lingered even in his absence.

* * *

*.*.*.*

* * *

Hermione jolted upright in the bed, adrenaline surging through her body as sleep left her. The vibrating sound of the gong clanged through the château loudly, piercing her ears, awaking her instantly. Quickly leaving all traces of slumber, Hermione whipped the sheets from her body and scrambled out of the bed hurriedly. She grabbed her nightgown and fumbled to pull it onto her body before stopping suddenly.

A frown creased at her brow as she slowly turned to face the bed she had just left, seeing no signs of Mr Malfoy. That was odd, for they had both been in the bed before she fell asleep. He had spent the night in that very bed with her.

Suddenly, dread pooled at her stomach as the gong clanged out again. The horrifying realisation struck her. The gong was only used when another had died. And it could possibly be Mr Malfoy, for he was not where he was supposed to be.

With the morning light pouring into the bedroom, Hermione darted towards the door, suddenly panting from the sheer amount of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Pushing through the door frantically, Hermione sprinted down the corridor, bypassing Miss Weasley and Lady Sinclair on her way, outrunning the other two women.

The three of them clambered down the staircase to the foyer, all three in a panic. No men were in sight, and it was clear that each woman feared for their respective gentleman. Lady Sinclair feared for her lover, Mr Zabini; Miss Weasley feared for her ally, Mr Potter; Miss Granger feared for her suitor, Mr Malfoy. So when all women reached the bottom of the staircase, and therefore the foyer, two relaxed only momentarily before all three suddenly screamed at the sight they were met with.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

* * *

All survivors – and one newly deceased – occupied the grand foyer of the château. The three women remained on the staircase, each one of them in a state of absolute shock and horror. At first, relief had come to two of them, but shortly after, the corpse was noticed.

Mr Potter hung from the chandelier above, supported by thick, course rope coiled around his neck. With his throat black and blue, and his vacant stare, it was clear that he was dead. Death by hanging… Much like the victim he had caused to be convicted of crimes not committed – Lord Parkinson.

Suddenly, Hermione's ears hummed with the piercing screams ricocheting through the foyer, but her own shrieks were among the horrid noises. She had believed herself to be accustomed to corpses in the château, but found that she was dreadfully wrong. The sight of the man hanging from the chandelier above was a wretched and gruesome one, particularly as his glassy eyes remained open, gazing blankly at nothing. The lips of the corpse were parted, as though he had tried to scream before he had been hung and fastened to the chandelier above.

All three women were in such hysterics that no one noticed the swaying of the corpse above, indicating that it was not long ago he had been hung to his death. They only focused on the horror of the scene, including the word 'killer' spelled out on the floor beneath his feet. The word was spelled out in pieces of torn paper, presumably scraps of one document.

Hermione leaned against the banister of the staircase, her legs turning to jelly, her gaze unable to tear away from the corpse above. Mr Malfoy stood by the gong, his concerned stare fixed on Hermione as she supported herself on the barrier. He dropped the mallet to the ground as he strode towards the staircase, swiftly ascending the bottom four steps to reach her, bypassing Miss Weasley and Lady Sinclair on the way.

"Do not look, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy said softly, pulling her into an embrace to obscure her vision.

Miss Weasley had evidently reacted the worse to the body of Mr Potter, for she had grown close to the man, and had declared her alliance with him. Perhaps she now felt alone in a home of murderers? It would be a likely and understandable feeling to possess.

The screams of the women eventually faded into whines – courtesy of Lady Sinclair – and sobs – courtesy of Miss Weasley. Suddenly, Miss Weasley staggered down the remaining steps, her horrified eyes gazing up at the corpse before she fell to her knees and continued to weep wretchedly. Mr Zabini reclined against the wall, his hands in his pockets, and cold black eyes on Lady Sinclair as she glanced at him.

Instantly, Octavia scrambled down the staircase, rushing over to the stoic Mr Zabini, not caring that he didn't seem to return her relief. Throwing herself at the man, Octavia wrapped her arms around his neck, holding onto him tightly. He did not return the embrace. In fact, Mr Zabini only stiffened at the gesture before nudging her away from him, rejecting her need for comfort. Snivelling pathetically, Octavia stepped backwards, her hurt hazel eyes gazing up at the cold stare of the gentleman.

"I thought … for a moment … it could've been you, sir." Octavia mumbled, frowning in palpable hurt.

"Would you care?" Mr Zabini quirked his brow, regarding her coolly.

"Of course, sir," Octavia breathed, a little offended. "I would be overcome with grief."

"I do not believe you, Lady Sinclair. After all, I am only a brown-skinned peasant, no?" Mr Zabini retorted, pushing himself from the wall to brush by her, approaching the others.

Octavia's face scrunched up as a fresh wave of tears washed over her, dampening her blotchy cheeks instantly. Silently, she snivelled and blubbered, but followed the cold gentleman toward the others in the foyer.

Miss Weasley sobbed as she sat on her knees, gingerly taking the scraps of paper from the floor, trying to piece them together. Mr Zabini dropped to one knee in front of the red-head to assist her – not out of chivalry, but of curiosity. Hovering near the pair, Octavia clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle her soft sobs, watching as they organised the fragments of paper neatly.

Hermione remained on the staircase with Mr Malfoy, crying into his chest as he embraced her tightly. But the gentleman had manoeuvred the both of them to allow himself a direct view of the others on the ground. His calculating silver eyes observed Mr Zabini complete the puzzle of paper scraps, Miss Weasley barely assisting, due to the overwhelming sobs that she evidently could not stifle.

"The police statement," Mr Zabini announced, his black gaze darting over the shredded paper. "The very same found with Mr Black."

"No surprises," Mr Malfoy replied, rubbing Hermione's back soothingly as she cried. "Mr Potter botched the evidence of the case to convict an innocent man. We all knew it."

"We know a lot of things, Mr Malfoy," Octavia sniffed, wiping at her damp cheeks with a handkerchief from her sleeve. "We are all guilty of crimes, but does it mean we all deserve to die? Mr Potter believed his actions to be fair, so took appropriate means to ensure justice – does that mean he should hang?"

"Yes." Mr Zabini replied, rising to his feet, keeping his back to the snivelling Octavia. "Mr Potter deserved to hang for his crimes, as do I and Mr Malfoy."

"What are you saying, sir?" Ginevra hiccupped, shakily getting to her feet, avoiding the sight of the corpse above. "That we should patiently wait for another to deliver their skewed sentences of justice?"

"Hardly," Mr Malfoy interjected, Hermione calming in his arms. "While Mr Zabini and I have committed such atrocious crimes that we deserve to hang a hundred times over, it in no way should suggest that we will allow such retribution. Some of us may deserve to die more than others, but I intend on each one of us departing the island before it can occur. Unfortunately, Mr Potter was unable to survive long enough."

Octavia's gaze darted to Hermione as she noticeably stiffened in Mr Malfoy's arms. Slowly, Hermione shrugged out of the gentleman's embrace, her movements gradual and almost … careful? The woman could be heard snivelling as she seemingly wiped at her tears, but it was difficult to tell, as she had her back to Octavia.

"Miss Granger?" Octavia croaked, a curious frown creasing at her brow. "Are you all right?"

Hermione didn't respond, but turned to face the others as she shakily descended the stairs. Octavia's gaze – and that of the others – remained on Hermione as she came to a stop beneath the body and glanced up at it, as though processing suspicions and theories in her mind.

"Miss Granger," Octavia said softly, placing her hand on the woman's arm. "Perhaps you would prefer to relocate to another room?"

"Where were you?" Hermione whispered, gazing up at the corpse vacantly.

"Pardon me, Miss Granger?" Octavia blinked stupidly.

"Where were you?" Hermione repeated, slowly turning her head to the side to meet the silver eyes of Mr Malfoy. "When I awoke to the sound of the gong, sir, you were not where I had last seen you. You were the very person to ring the gong, and when we came to the foyer, you and Mr Zabini were already here. Where were you?"

"You think I am responsible for this?" Mr Malfoy quirked his brow, stuffing his hands in his pockets, perfectly at ease.

"I did not accuse you of that, sir." Hermione clipped tersely. "I merely inquired as to your whereabouts prior to discovering the body."

"I had gone to assess the weather, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy replied calmly, leaning on the barrier of the staircase. "I happened upon the body as I reached the foyer."

"And you, sir?" Hermione frowned, her narrowed eyes darting to Mr Zabini.

The handsome Italian man stifled a yawn before he inspected his fingernails nonchalantly, not a care in the world.

"I was in the kitchens," Mr Zabini said, seemingly bored as ever. "Before I could even begin to brew my morning coffee, I heard the gong."

"Before that?" Ginevra interrogated, distress giving way to suspicion.

"Before I journeyed to the kitchens, I was in my bedroom – like everyone else."

"Not Lady Sinclair's boudoir?" Hermione frowned, glancing at the swiftly blushing woman.

"No." Mr Zabini clipped firmly, eyes darkening as Octavia hung her head in palpable shame. "Not that it is any of your concern, I spent the night in my own bedroom, Miss Granger."

"Despite your prior dismissal, it does seem as though we are being accused, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy said, hard silver eyes fixed on his blossoming sweetheart. "However, I do recall awaking during the night to find you nowhere near me, Miss Granger. In fact, you did not return to the bed until considerable time afterwards."

"I went to the bathroom, Mr Malfoy," Hermione breathed, mortified at her admission.

Mr Malfoy hummed as he nodded pensively before a smirk twisted at his lips. "Strange, is it not? There is a small bathroom attached to your bedroom, Miss Granger, but I distinctly recall that you re-entered the bedroom from the door attached to the corridor, not the ensuite."

"I did not wish to relieve myself in such a close vicinity to you, sir," Hermione mumbled, burning the brightest shade of red. "I journeyed to the powder room at the end of the corridor."

"Does that not allow you sufficient time to deliver Mr Potter's death?" Mr Malfoy smirked, shifting the heat onto her.

"Are you insinuating that–"

"No," Mr Malfoy interrupted. "I am merely performing the same aloud thoughts as you were just moments ago, Miss Granger. Am I to understand that you are permitted to question myself and Mr Zabini, but not I to you?"

"I only asked questions," Hermione retorted, vexation swirling in her brown eyes. "You presented an outright accusation, sir."

"The truth of the matter is," Mr Malfoy said, addressing everyone as a whole, "that any one of us could have done this. At intervals throughout the night, each one of us was alone, therefore had ample time to murder Mr Potter."

"I disagree, Mr Malfoy," Ginevra whispered, gazing miserably up at the dangling corpse. "While I agree that we each are guilty of enduring moments of solitude, I cannot concur that any one of us women could be the culprit. To hang a fully grown man, weighing an estimated eighty kilograms, could not have been done by any woman here. Which leaves you two."

Octavia and Hermione both snapped their gazes to their respective gentlemen, neither man appearing bristled at the accusations. However, the women seemed to grow rather suspicious, for Ginevra's case made perfect sense. There was no way one of the three women could have lynched Mr Potter alone. They either had to have committed the deed in pairs, or have had to recruit assistance in the despicable deed. No matter the alternative theories, one thing was absolutely certain – not one of the women could have done this alone. Therefore, they were either all innocent in the crime, or were working with another to kill off the remaining survivors.

When everyone's thoughts came to the same conclusion, Hermione whispered the words they all knew, thickening the dense atmosphere dangerously. For the words she spoke were unavoidable truths. The words she spoke increased paranoia and suspicion in the most hazardous way. For with those words came the inevitable change – nobody could be trusted.

"The killer is one us."

* * *

*.*.*.*

* * *

Mr Malfoy reclined against the wall in the narrow corridor, one hand in his pockets, feet crossed at the ankles. Cigarette smoke poured out his nostrils and mouth as he inhaled the burning tobacco leisurely, stinking out the empty hallway. The group had managed to stick together for only an hour; following that, paranoia had consumed Miss Weasley. It wasn't surprising, really. It was clear to anyone that she would be the first to crack.

For that reason, Miss Weasley occupied the dining room alone, having locked the doors and windows to keep the others out. The red-headed woman had accused all others of being despicable killers, and claimed her own innocence before locking herself away. Mr Malfoy didn't mind. The less of the woman's hysteria he had to endure, the better.

Miss Granger had remained with him throughout the day, despite her evident piqued suspicions in his direction. Perhaps she only remained in his company as Lady Octavia and Mr Zabini had? Mr Malfoy couldn't be certain, but he suspected that to be the case. Mr Potter's favoured cliché, 'safety in numbers', came to mind.

At present, Mr Malfoy resided in the corridor, guarding the bedroom door he faced. Inside the bedroom, Miss Granger was fancying about, taking her leisurely time to bathe and dress for the day. Mr Malfoy had also instructed that she pack her belongings, for he would depart the island come dinner to swim to the mainland. Perhaps that was the cause for her beyond lengthy time in the bedroom? Then again, she was a woman, and women tended to dither.

The bedroom door, further down the hall, creaked open, outstepping Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair. The pair hadn't necessarily reconciled their differences that morning, but the Lady had insisted on his presence whilst she bathed. Of course, Mr Zabini hadn't been in the ensuite – Mr Malfoy assumed, at least – but had occupied the attached bedroom to provide the lady with a sense of security and protection.

Lady Sinclair looked fresh as ever, and even seemed to be sporting a little make-up on her pretty face. Her curls remained somewhat damp, however, indicating to Mr Zabini's presumed impatience with her whilst she dressed. Also, the lady adorned the most uninviting scowl on her face, only further supporting Mr Malfoy's suspicions.

"How are you feeling, Lady Sinclair?" Mr Malfoy asked, performing the expected and polite inquiry, despite not caring in the slightest.

"Much better, thank you, Mr Malfoy," Lady Sinclair smiled tightly, shooting an almost unnoticeable glare at Mr Zabini.

The latter didn't notice – or care about –the glower, and instead, lit himself a cigarette as he strode toward his comrade. Lady Sinclair was quick to follow, maintaining a safe distance to Mr Zabini, but continuing to scowl at the back of the man's head childishly.

"Miss Granger is yet to emerge?" Mr Zabini inquired between deep inhales of his cigarette.

Mr Malfoy shrugged lightly in response, his pointed glance at the door communicating that women were regularly slow in whatever task they performed.

"Perhaps you should check on her," Mr Zabini suggested. "I permitted Lady Sinclair considerable time to go about her business, and even with her constant dawdling, she managed to clean, dress and pack within the hour – almost."

Lady Sinclair's jaw ticked at the little jab, her narrowed eyes burning a hole into the side of Mr Zabini's face. The latter continued to ignore her, casually smoking his cigarette, pretending the little lady didn't exist. Mr Malfoy did not know what had transpired between the two, but he hardly cared – Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair were hot and cold several times throughout the day. It appeared to be their 'thing'. They would rile one another up, hurl snide insults at the other, and curl up together at the end of it all.

Glancing between the hostile twosome, Mr Malfoy inhaled his cigarette deeply before he nodded once and exhaled.

"I will see to Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy agreed, pushing himself from the wall. "Perhaps while I do, you might go to the kitchens and prepare breakfast?"

"Pardon me?" Lady Sinclair gasped, utterly offended. "Preparing breakfast is a servant's duty, sir."

"There are no servants here to dote on you, Lady Sinclair," Mr Malfoy responded coolly, tossing his cigarette to the floor before stamping on it.

"Perhaps not," Lady Sinclair sniffed. "Yet, the matter still stands – my status is much grander than each one of you. Therefore, it would be more appropriate if anyone but myself saw to our meals."

Mr Malfoy almost rolled his eyes at the woman, but instead, gave Mr Zabini a pointed look. The Italian gentleman shrugged as he took the cigarette from his lips, offering no defence for either Mr Malfoy or Lady Sinclair. Mr Malfoy clenched his jaw before pushing through the door to Miss Granger's bedroom, leaving the pair out in the corridor. He just hoped that Mr Zabini would see to breakfast, presumably after assigning Lady Sinclair as the 'supervisor', or something equally as ridiculous. For, despite their hostility, Mr Malfoy didn't doubt that Mr Zabini would cater to the snob's sensibilities.

*.*.*

Clangs and clatters echoed through the kitchen as Mr Zabini began to prepare breakfast. In an unladylike fashion, Octavia perched herself on the edge of the central counter, observing the silent gentleman as he gathered the required utensils. Her shoe-clad feet fidgeted together anxiously, but her narrowed eyes followed the tanned man wherever he went, shimmering with vexation. If Octavia was to collect a kitchen knife from the counter, she was certain that she would be able to slice through the atmosphere between them.

"Blaise," Octavia sighed, Mr Zabini throwing down a hunk of ham next to her as she spoke. "I wish to discuss this animosity between us."

"Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini stated evenly, placing the ham on a chopping board. "Address me as Mr Zabini, please."

Octavia puckered her lips in annoyance, her brows furrowing in a childish demonstration of hurt. She watched as he began to slice the ham into thick cuts before tossing the slabs into the frying pan.

"Are we no longer acquainted?" Octavia frowned, picking at a chip in the counter.

"We are not."

"My memories claim otherwise, sir." Octavia mumbled. "In fact, they claim quite the opposite."

"You believe that our prior intimacy has any effect on our relationship as it stands?" Mr Zabini smirked cruelly, butchering the hunk of ham.

"Of course it does, sir," Octavia frowned, observing him curiously, slivers of hurt in the hazel of her eyes. "It clearly has had a negative impact on our rapport."

"I would not obsess over it, if I were you," Mr Zabini said coldly, not even glancing at her as he prepared breakfast. "You are merely one of many, Lady Sinclair."

Octavia flinched as though she had been slapped, and in a way, she had been – metaphorically, at least. He didn't spare her a single look as he wiped his hands on a cloth before tossing it onto the kitchen counter she sat on.

"I do not doubt that you have entertained countless conquests, sir," Octavia whispered, her voice thick with hurt. "For you are so clearly nothing but swine."

"You do not doubt it, yet you seemed to have fooled yourself into believing that you are _special_ ," Mr Zabini mocked cruelly, placing his hands on the edge of the counter, staring at the plates of food.

Octavia slid off the edge of the counter before quickly rounding on the despicable man. The expression she wore reeked of hatred, but her eyes screamed of pure betrayal. With an amused smirk on his lips, Mr Zabini turned to face her expectantly. The smirk was wiped off his features the moment her hand connected harshly with his cheek, a loud crack ripping through the kitchen from the assault.

"Do not trivialise me, sir." Octavia spat, glowering at the man as his face remained turned to the side, his jaw clenched tightly. "Whether I am special or not in the grand scheme of life is irrelevant, but we both know that I am special to you, sir. You have declared your love for me already, and might I point out that it was _after_ our deeds had taken place, so there were no ulterior motives for admitting to such sentiments. I appreciate that you are upset with me, Mr Zabini, but I will not be treated like a whore, is that understood, sir?"

Ever so slowly, Mr Zabini craned his neck, his jaw remaining tightly clenched, teeth gritted, and body tense. The blackness of his eyes appeared to darken as he faced her, his handsome features seemingly made of stone. Octavia gasped as his hand suddenly shot out and clutched her throat firmly, the hitman taking one determined step toward her, closing the meagre distance between their bodies.

Octavia was suddenly very away of how tall the gentleman was, for he towered over her as his black eyes bore down into her wide hazel ones. The grip on her neck remained tight, but not so much so that she couldn't breathe. Still; the lady panicked somewhat, his grip pulled her up to align their faces, her toes the only part of her feet supporting her weight.

"I apologise," Mr Zabini said crisply, his upper lip curling slightly. "I regret my treatment of you, and the implication that you are a whore, for I am aware that you are not. However, you treat me in a disgusting fashion, and expect me to simply adhere to your every command. Forgive me if I felt … pushed to the edge, Lady Sinclair."

"Unhand me at once," Octavia hissed, meeting his fierce stare confidently.

"I intend to," Mr Zabini said coolly, raising his chin slightly as he stared down at her. "However, before I do, I must insist that you refrain from slapping me again, Lady Sinclair. The assault will not be tolerated a third time."

Octavia scoffed delicately, the sound high-pitched and squeaky. "And if I do, Mr Zabini?"

"You forget who I am, Lady Sinclair." Mr Zabini warned, his tone low and dangerous.

"I have not forgotten, sir," Octavia smirked patronisingly. "Nor have I forgotten your expressed sentiments in my favour, therefore I am absolutely certain that no harm will come to me by your hand. You offer empty threats, and we both know it, Mr Zabini."

"You are the most intolerable, condescending, bitch of a woman I have ever met, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini said through gritted teeth.

"And you, sir, are the most unrefined, crude, shameless, swine of a man I have ever encountered, which is quite the declaration, I must say," Octavia spat, squirming in his hold a little.

Mr Zabini closed his eyes as his head lolled back, inhaling deeply in a bid for patience. Abruptly, he released his firm hold on her neck, the lady immediately stepping away from him as she importantly sniffed in the air, looking down her nose at him.

"I have never said these words to another person, Mr Zabini," Octavia drawled, flicking her curls over her shoulder snobbishly. "However, I have never encountered a person I deemed deserving of them – fuck you."

The shame she felt for her crude words was clear from the blush on her rosy cheeks, but the lady kept her nose in the air, and maintained her sense of importance and superiority. Mr Zabini's jaw ticked noticeably as his dark, dangerous eyes narrowed at the women, entering into a silent standoff of sorts. Before Octavia could even back away, he stormed toward her and spun her around aggressively, the lady squeaking in surprise.

Mr Zabini slammed her chest down on the kitchen counter, Octavia grunting a little as he hurriedly bunched up her dress to her waist.

Octavia gasped, feebly fighting him before his hand came down on her buttocks.

"Mr Zabini!" Octavia shrilled, glancing over her shoulder at the enraged gentleman. He met her gaze, evenly staring at her, awaiting her resistance. But it didn't come.

Again, his hand harshly slapped against her soft mound, increasing the redness that appeared there. This time, however, he kept her gaze for the punishment, seeing the cloud of arousal taking over her hazel eyes.

Raising his hand for the hardest slap yet, Mr Zabini's furious eyes bore into her excited ones, the sounds of her uneven breaths sounded out through the kitchen. Before his palm could assault her buttocks for a third time, the familiar sound of the gong resounded through the château, vibrating in the thick air between them.

The atmosphere quickly shifted from arousal and anger to suspicion and – on Octavia's part – fear. For the gong meant another had died.

*.*.*

As the door clicked closed behind him, Mr Malfoy glanced around the bedroom, but saw no signs of Miss Granger. The woman's suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed in neat piles of garments, but not completed. Deciding that the woman must be in the ensuite, Mr Malfoy strode through the bedroom, approaching the desired door swiftly. Once he reached the door, he raised his hand and rapped his knuckles against the wooden object.

"Miss Granger?" Mr Malfoy called out, knocking lightly. "Are you decent?"

Resisting the urge to scoff at his own question, Mr Malfoy knocked again. Why he had asked if she was in a dressed state was beyond him, for he had seen every nook and cranny of her body several times over. Still, it was gentlemanly behaviour that Miss Granger would appreciate.

"Miss Granger, are you all right?"

Again, he received no response, and therefore, his concern increased considerably. Pressing his ear against the door, Mr Malfoy listened for any sounds of movements, but heard none. Not even the splashing of water in the bathtub could be heard.

"I am entering the bathroom, Miss Granger. Consider yourself warned if you are indecent."

Still no response came, so Mr Malfoy twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door gradually. Once the door was fully opened, and therefore the ensuite was revealed to him, his silver gaze rested on the floor instantly.

There she was, next to the bathtub, a tranquil expression on her relaxed face, but not in any state he welcomed. For Miss Granger was sprawled out on the floor, one leg bent at an odd angle, arms spread wide, a halo of curls framing her head, her body completely motionless.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

* * *

Straddling the motionless body on the marble floor, Mr Malfoy clasped his hands together, positioning them flat against the chest of the woman, and pumping down repeatedly, in perfectly timed movements. Miss Granger's body jerked slightly with every thrust of his hands against her chest, but no sharp inhales of breath came.

Clothes and a teacup lay scattered around the motionless woman, ignored entirely by Mr Malfoy as he continued to perform CPR on her body. He had checked for a pulse when he had first reached her, but didn't find one. It was possible that in his frantic state, Mr Malfoy hadn't spent enough focus or time searching for a pulse, and dove straight into an emergency reaction instead. Who knew? All Mr Malfoy knew was that he had to wake her – he had to bring her back.

How long Mr Malfoy had been performing CPR was entirely unknown. It could have been an hour, or a mere minute. Perhaps less, or more. It was uncertain, for time was elusive and unreliable in that moment. It was fluid, ungraspable and agonising. For if he had been performing CPR for longer than three minutes, Miss Granger's chances decreased to nothing.

Pumping, hitting, punching, thrusting. He continued, never ending, never pausing, always performing. Blonde hair fell over his brow as he exhaled sharply with ever pump of his hands against her chest, his fingers entwined, putting considerable weight into the impact.

Suddenly, Miss Granger's brows furrowed as a groan rumbled through her throat, Mr Malfoy freezing instantly. It was not the general response when one returned to life via CPR. There were no gasps, sputters, bodily jerks, fluids spewing from the mouth … There was nothing of the sort. The woman just … opened her eyes before frowning at Mr Malfoy in confusion.

For once in his life, Mr Malfoy felt like a world-class moron. He had allowed his emotions to consume his strategic and logical mind, thereby botching his assessment for a pulse. He had reacted brashly, caused himself unnecessary stress, purely due to the fear he had felt upon seeing her motionless body on the floor. Also, in a place like Durrem Island, was it truly an unreasonable assumption to make, that a motionless body was a dead one? Perhaps not. Either way, he had wasted time and energy on a futile task, and felt like quite the fool as a result.

"Mr Malfoy?" Miss Granger croaked, rubbing the heel of her hands on her eyes. "Is there any particular reason you are on top of me, sir?"

Mr Malfoy sighed wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose as he attempted to regain his composure. After a brief pause, he kicked into action, rising from her body before assisting her to stand upright. Miss Granger wobbled noticeably, unable to stand without his support and assistance. Her forehead rested against his chest as she groaned in confusion, her hand rubbing the back of her head sluggishly.

"I must have fallen," Miss Granger mumbled, her skull evidently in agony.

Mr Malfoy clenched his jaw tightly as he held her against him, gingerly resting his chin atop her head. His response to her suggestion was a mere neutral hum, but his narrowed eyes appeared calculating, as though he did not accept her reasoning.

"What happened, Miss Granger?" Mr Malfoy asked evenly, his comforting embrace clashing with his stern tone.

"I … I remember closing the door, and … I walked over to the bathtub … I recall hearing a noise behind me, but that is as far as I can remember, sir. I must … Surely something fell onto my head, or …"

"Or what, Miss Granger?" Mr Malfoy clipped, glancing at the items on the floor. There was nothing there with the required heftiness to render Miss Granger unconscious. Only some pieces of clothing and a teacup.

"I feel quite dizzy, sir," Miss Granger breathed, her legs giving out beneath her.

Mr Malfoy scooped her up into his arms, carrying her bridal-style as he strode out of the ensuite. Through the bedroom he marched, making quick work of the distance before depositing the weak woman onto the bed.

"Wait there," Mr Malfoy ordered, not giving her a second to respond.

Miss Granger watched as he stormed back into the ensuite, presumably searching for the item that had rendered her unconscious, or a clue, perhaps. Barely a minute after, he re-emerged and approached her bedside, stony silver eyes meeting her gaze.

"I believe you were attacked, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy said, seating himself on the edge of the plush bed. "There are no items in the bathroom that could have fallen onto your head and done sufficient damage to knock you out."

"Attacked?" Hermione frowned, her skull thudding violently. "Sir, if anyone was to attack me, they would've had to pass you to gain entry to the bedroom, no?"

"If they entered by means of the door, then yes," Mr Malfoy nodded. "However, it is possible that whomever attacked you came in through the window, or perhaps was already in the bedroom."

"Surely not," Hermione shook her head in disbelief. "If I was attacked by the killer, I would be dead, sir."

"The killer may have believed you to be dead."

"Thus far, the killer has yet to make such a mistake," Hermione argued. "I do not think it likely for the killer to do so now. Not when he is so close to completing his plan."

"He?" Mr Malfoy quirked his brow. "You think the killer to be a man?"

"Well, yes," Hermione nodded. "Don't you, sir?"

"No," Mr Malfoy smirked. "If the killer was indeed a man, it would only mean that either myself or Mr Zabini are guilty – if not, the both of us. There are no other men here, Miss Granger."

"It cannot be a woman," Hermione frowned, averting her gaze from his. "The strength required to perform such theatrical murders can only be accomplished by a man, sir."

"You think I am the killer?"

"No," Hermione whispered. "I believe Mr Zabini is the killer."

" _A_ killer, yes, but not the one behind this madness, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy replied, rather coldly in fact. "We do not have time to discuss this at present, however. Whilst you were unconscious, the gong was hit – someone has died, Miss Granger."

Mr Malfoy clutched the open suitcase on the mattress and tugged it closer to himself. He quickly rummaged through the garments inside – making a mess of Hermione's neat and organised work – before retrieving a pair of brown T-bar heels. As Hermione was without shoes, she allowed the gentleman to slip the pair onto her stocking-clad feet and clasp them swiftly. Fleetingly, she entertained the thought that he had done that before – fastened a woman's shoes … It was a strange thought to have, and completely unreasonable, but it entered her mind regardless, and brought a twinge of jealousy with it.

"Are you able to stand?" Mr Malfoy asked, pushing himself from the bed.

"I believe so, yes," Hermione nodded, taking his extended hand. "I am a little dizzy, but I am sure that it will pass."

Mr Malfoy assisted the faint woman out of the bed, placing his hands on her waist to help steady her balance. Hermione's eyes shut tight as she tried to stop the room from swaying, but it took a few moments for her attempt to become successful.

The door to the bedroom burst open, in stepping Mr Zabini, followed closely by a frantic and scared Lady Sinclair.

"Did you ring the gong?" Octavia asked, her voice a pitch higher than normal.

"No," Mr Malfoy replied coolly, meeting the gaze of Mr Zabini.

"There was no one in the foyer," Mr Zabini said, glancing at the weak Miss Granger. "We assumed that you had rung it."

"Miss Granger had a fall," Mr Malfoy explained, referring to Hermione's unbalance. "I was attempting to rouse her when I heard the gong."

"If you did not ring the gong yourself, sir, who did?" Octavia frowned.

"Miss Weasley," Hermione groaned, attempting to steady herself.

"Why would Miss Weasley ring the gong?" Octavia scoffed delicately. "Unless another body has been found, there is no plausible explanation – also, there are no more bodies to discover, except from Miss Weasley's, but if she struck the gong, she cannot be dead."

"I suggest we locate the woman," Mr Malfoy sighed, seemingly bored of the dramatics at Durrem Island. "Are you able to move, Miss Granger?"

"Yes," Hermione nodded. "I am feeling much better – a little unsteady, but better."

"Then let's go," Mr Zabini declared. "I would like to have a word with Miss Weasley about when it is appropriate to ring the gong. I was in the middle of … something quite enjoyable, and she has rudely interrupted it."

Octavia blushed profusely, the reaction noticed by Hermione. But the lady pretended to not be the colour of a tomato as she feigned indifference, distractedly glancing around the bedroom as though it was the most interesting room she had ever seen.

*.*.*

The clacking of heels echoed down the corridor as they approached the dining room. Miss Weasley had locked herself inside earlier that morning, claiming that it was safer for her to remain in solitude, away from the rest of the survivors. But as they neared the door, they saw that it was open slightly, and the doorhandle was completely torn off.

Malfoy and Mr Zabini stepped toward the door, both removing their revolvers from the waistbands of their trousers. The women stayed close behind the men as Lady Sinclair's hand reached out to touch Miss Granger's. Miss Granger raised her brows, turning to face the scared lady, but allowed their hands to clasp together in a gesture of fear and comfort.

Hand-in-hand, the two women followed the gentlemen into the dining room, flickering candlelights dancing over to the walls and furniture. The first object that the women noticed was a red lipstick placed on the dining table, lying on top of crinkled, handwritten letter. But as they all glanced around the grand room, no signs of a body were discovered, nor any signs of Miss Weasley.

Mr Malfoy approached the dining table and snatched the letter before scanning it swiftly with his hard gaze. After a moment, he handed it to Mr Zabini who was inspecting the red lipstick carefully. The Italian gentleman chucked the lipstick onto the table before taking the letter, his revolver clasped firmly in his other hand.

"A love letter," Mr Malfoy said to the two uneasy women. "From Lady Parkinson to Miss Weasley."

"What does it say?" Octavia whispered, glancing at the letter in Mr Zabini's hand.

"It says that Lady Parkinson is – or was – willing to relinquish her inheritance in favour of eloping with Miss Weasley," Mr Malfoy explained, side-glancing at the bitter Mr Zabini.

The tanned gentleman tossed the love letter onto the dining table, shooting Octavia a glare. Octavia pretended to have not noticed the meaningful glance, and opted to gaze around the room instead, mostly for the purpose of avoiding Mr Zabini's eyes.

"There," Hermione pointed at the roaring fireplace, the mantelpiece above it now entirely void of its usual ornaments.

The two gentlemen swiftly strode toward the fireplace, each holding a fully-loaded revolver. Hermione and Octavia timidly followed the men, their movements cautious and hesitant for fear of what they would see.

"Adulterer," Mr Zabini said, reading the word written atop the mantelpiece in red lipstick.

"This is very strange, is it not?" Hermione frowned, glancing around the room for the countless time. "The evidence is here, but not the body."

"It is here," Mr Malfoy replied darkly. "It is in the fire."

Despite not truly wishing to see another body, both women shuffled forward, craning their necks to peek around the muscular bodies of the gentlemen. It was difficult to assess the flames through the safety barrier in front of the fireplace, but after a few seconds of concentration, everything came into view.

"Oh!" Octavia gasped, stumbling backwards, her hands slapping over her parted lips.

Hermione just gaped at the familiar woman in the fireplace, unable to recognise the burnt face or scorched body. It wasn't really a body … It was a charred, brutal and gruesome leftover of what Miss Weasley once was. Her hair had been burnt to nothing but ash; big blistering boils covering the charred, crispy flesh; limbs bent and tangled at the oddest angles. The only recognisable feature of the woman Hermione had once known was her bright blue eyes, gazing out of the flames, vacant, yet filled with absolute misery and fear.

"If a woman lie with womankind, as she lieth with a man, both of them have committed an abomination," Octavia whispered, reciting bible scripture in a horrified tone, "they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them, and they shall burn in the flames of hell for all eternity."

Biting back the bile that threatened to creep up her throat, Hermione placed her hand on her rapidly beating heart, tears welling up in her honey brown eyes. The horror of the scene was the worst yet for Hermione, due to her prior acquaintance with the deceased woman, as well as the gruesome murder. And now that she saw the body in the flames, the scent of bubbling, boiling, burning flesh was all too putrid and distinguishable. Hermione wondered how she didn't smell the horrid aroma before.

"I don't … I don't understand," Hermione breathed, as Octavia leaned against the wall for support. "Who could have done this to her?"

"The same person who has killed everyone else," Mr Zabini retorted, regarding the corpse curiously – as though he appreciated the sight… almost mentally taking notes for his future assignments. It was most sickening.

"You misunderstand me, sir." Hermione said, watching as Mr Malfoy placed his gun on the dining table before pouring himself a tumbler of brandy at the bar in the corner. She didn't know why, but it seemed strange to her – she didn't realise he was fond of brandy.

"What I mean to say," Hermione explained, stepping backwards into the wall, right beside the lady, "is that there are only four of us left. So which one of us could have done this?"

"It has to be either Mr Malfoy or yourself, Miss Granger," Octavia declared, cheeks streaked with tears. "Mr Zabini and I were in the kitchens when the gong was hit … It could not have been either one of us."

"I was unconscious, Lady Sinclair," Hermione defended. "Mr Malfoy was ensuring that I awoke, and that I was well."

"So you say!" Octavia shrieked, pushing herself from the wall to round on the woman. "You claim to have been unconscious, Miss Granger, but I cannot be certain of that, can I? And am I to believe that Mr Malfoy remained by your side the entire time? What if he left you there to murder Miss Weasley and came back to claim his alibi? Oh! What if Mr Malfoy is the one who struck you in the first place, Miss Granger?!"

"You are becoming quite hysterical, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini said, stuffing his revolver back into his waistband at the small of his back. "Perhaps you will feel better if we moved to another room?"

"Another room, another day, another body, sir!" Octavia snapped. "It does not matter in which room we convene, for each possesses its own horror. Mr Wilby's corpse is in the drawing room; Miss Weasley's corpse in here; Mr Black and Lady Parkinson are upstairs; Mr Longbottom is still in the cool room; we have yet to move Mrs Longbottom from the foyer, as well as Mr Potter; Mr Nott remains in the kitchens … No matter where we go, sir, there is death – it follows us, taunting us always!"

By the end of her rant, Lady Sinclair was almost hyperventilating – her bosom rose and fell noticeably, her cheeks flushed, yet the rest of her complexion was considerably pale. Tears glistened in her big hazel eyes, trickling down her blotchy cheeks, and her curls seemed to have grown wilder. Hermione was in quite the similar state, but reclined against the wall, attempting to stifle the brewing sobs within her, for Lady Sinclair was correct in all she said. There were bodies scattered around the grand manor house, and they could not be escaped. Death was constantly around them, dangerously nearing, threatening to take the next life as its own.

"According to your listed rooms of tainted availability, Lady Sinclair, we shall transfer to the parlour room, as it is the only communal space that is without a corpse." Mr Malfoy declared.

"You seem to have eluded the point of my words," Octavia snivelled, wiping at her cheeks. "No matter where we go, death will come. And it will be delivered by one of us here, in this very room. We cannot escape death, for the deliverer is one of us."

"Lady Sinclair is correct," Hermione whispered, watery eyes glancing at the reasonably paranoid woman. "The killer is among us."

"Thank you, Miss Granger," Octavia nodded, appreciating the support, as opposed to the judgemental glances she was currently receiving from both gentlemen.

"However," Hermione said, ignoring the tears falling down her cheeks. "I do not believe that any one of us had the time to perform such a gruesome murder at the time the gong was hit."

"I did not," Octavia agreed, "nor did Mr Zabini. As I have already informed, we were both in the kitchens when the gong could be heard."

"Precisely," Hermione nodded. "And I was with Mr Malfoy. So we have come to a predicament of sorts. Either we are all telling the truth, which would mean the killer is not one of us, or one of us are lying."

Octavia frowned as a thought struck her, "What if … Perhaps we are confusing the time of Miss Weasley's death…"

"Pardon?" Mr Zabini quirked his brow, lighting himself a cigarette as Mr Malfoy did the same.

"I am pondering as to why we have come to the shared assumption that Miss Weasley died right before the gong was hit," Octavia explained. "It is possible that Miss Weasley was killed prior to that … Perhaps around the time that we were all apart from one another."

"What do you mean to suggest, My Lady?" Hermione asked interestedly.

"Well, when I bathed, I was alone," Octavia explained. "Mr Zabini remained in my boudoir to guard the ensuite door, but I was alone for an estimated thirty minutes. Mr Malfoy guarded your bedroom door in the corridor, no? Which would mean that he was alone for an hour, Miss Granger – as well as yourself. We were all alone for considerable time this morning, which would allow ample time to murder Miss Weasley and return before the absence was noticed by another."

"And the gong, My Lady?" Mr Zabini asked between inhales of his cigarette. "If you are correct in your theory, and one of us killed Miss Weasley earlier this morning, who struck the gong?"

"That is a mystery, Mr Zabini," Octavia frowned, unable to explain. "However, as we have all learned, nothing remains a mystery on this island."

"Is it a mystery?" Hermione whispered, staring at Mr Malfoy suspiciously. "Perhaps Mr Malfoy was my attacker … Perhaps he ensured that I would remain unconscious whilst he murdered Miss Weasley and returned to me before I awoke. I was unconscious when the gong was struck, therefore Mr Malfoy could have been the one to hit it…"

"Again with the misguided accusations, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy responded coolly. "I have protected you from harm since I arrived at the château, I have courted you, and expressed my sentiments in your favour, yet you continue to regard me with suspicion. It is most disappointing, Miss Granger."

"Your theory could be reversed, Miss Granger," Mr Zabini added. "You could have climbed out of the window in the ensuite whilst Mr Malfoy guarded your door in the corridor. It would have allowed you sufficient time to murder Miss Weasley, and you could have easily slipped back into the bathroom and pretended to be unconscious for Mr Malfoy to find you. Did you not say that you did not hear the gong as you were unconscious? Perhaps you struck it before Mr Malfoy found you?"

"That is not possible," Octavia countered. "Before you and I left the corridor, Mr Zabini, I watched Mr Malfoy enter Miss Granger's bedroom. It was another twenty minutes or so before the gong was struck. So Mr Malfoy would have already located Miss Granger when the gong was hit, unless he was the very person to have done it."

"It is you," Hermione whispered in total shock, eyes wide as saucers as she gazed at Mr Malfoy. "Sir … It is truly you who is the killer. No other person could have hit the gong but you, sir. You are the killer!"

"I assure you, Miss Granger, I am not the orchestrator of this ploy." Mr Malfoy responded dryly.

Despite Mr Malfoy's denial of the accusation, Octavia seemed to agree with Hermione, for she discreetly stepped closer to the woman, never taking her wary gaze off Mr Malfoy.

"Mr Malfoy," Octavia began cautiously, entwining her finger's with Hermione again, "when will the storm pass?"

"The night before yesterday, sir, you predicted that the storm would pass by morning, or at most, a day." Hermione countered, following the suspicions of Octavia. "It has been two days, yet the storm remains."

"Am I guilty for misinterpreting the weather?" Mr Malfoy grinned, flicking cigarette ash onto the floor as Mr Zabini smirked.

"Ah, but the storm has calmed enough to allow a strong swimmer passage, sir," Octavia argued. "If you are the swimmer you claim to be, the weather would permit the journey now. Yet you have not begun to prepare for the swim."

"I do not believe the weather to be nearly calm enough for such a journey, Lady Sinclair," Mr Malfoy said, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette.

"Octavia," Mr Zabini said, addressing her informally, "I believe you would benefit from a rest."

"A rest?" Octavia breathed, her brows raising. "You wish for me to nap, sir?"

"I think it best," Mr Zabini nodded. "Perhaps it will soothe your nerves."

"My nerves?" Octavia shrilled, clutching tightly onto Hermione's hand. "My nerves are no issue, sir. The issue… It is that I am facing two self-confessed killers, and I believe one of you to be the monster behind this whole shambles!"

"Mr Malfoy and I are life-long comrades, Octavia," Mr Zabini said softly, almost trying to coax her. "If he is the killer, then I must be too. Do you think that of me?"

Hermione's fingers tightened like vices around Octavia's hand, the woman evidently realising something that Octavia hadn't. Her grip remained firm as Hermione slowly guided Octavia closer to her, stepping backwards a little towards the door, but so slowly that it was barely noticeable.

"Neither of your whereabouts can be verified for several deaths, gentlemen," Hermione breathed, eyes wide with horrifying realisation. "For Mr Potter's death, your alibis were weak and unsupported; For Miss Weasley's death either one of you could have done it; For Mr Black's death, again, either one of you; For Mr Nott's death, you claimed to have separated during the search of the island for the man, but did not find him. I believe you did find him, and you butchered him."

Octavia gasped suddenly, pointing accusingly at Mr Zabini with her free hand.

"The undershirts!" Octavia squeaked. "You were both without undershirts when you returned from the search party!"

"So?" Mr Zabini smirked, apparently finding it all rather amusing.

"You both killed Mr Nott … You did so _after_ taking your shirts off to ensure that they remained untouched by his blood … You threw away the undershirts after disposing of the body in the kitchens, put on your dress shirts, and returned to us an hour after the search party commenced."

"That is more than sufficient time for two contract killers to perform such a deed," Hermione breathed, utterly convinced. "And that is what you are! You are contract killers – this is an assignment, isn't it?!"

"You are drinking brandy, sir," Octavia said, staring at Mr Malfoy's tumbler. "You have shown a preference of whiskey since arriving at the château. However, I do recall you drinking brandy for the first day … You switched to whiskey the morning of Mr Wilby's death, but before it occurred."

Mr Zabini grinned widely as he eyed Octavia approvingly, a glint of surprise in his black eyes. He brought the butt of the cigarette to his grinning lips before inhaling deeply, Mr Malfoy smirking cruelly at the two women. Mr Zabini raised his hands, cigarette dangling from his grinning lips, as he applauded slowly. The sound struck through the air and mocked the two women cruelly, for the applause was absolute confirmation – Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini were the killers.

"My, my," Mr Zabini laughed, butting out his cigarette on the mantelpiece as Mr Malfoy refilled his brandy. "You are surprisingly perceptive, Octavia, but I must say that I expected you to learn the truth much sooner."

"Do not address me in such a manner, sir!" Octavia spat, Hermione's fingers tightening around her hand. "You will refer to me as Lady Sinclair, you despicable man!"

"You never can come to one decision, can you?" Mr Zabini laughed, Mr Malfoy's back facing the women as he added cubes of ice to his tumbler. "One moment, you wish to be on a first name basis with myself, and the next, you are demanding that I address you according to your status."

"Particularly when I discover that you are the killer, sir!" Octavia shrieked, feeling Hermione stiffen beside. A swift side-glance to the brunette woman told Octavia all she needed to know, for Hermione was glancing repeatedly at the gun on the dining table.

"Yes, well," Mr Zabini grinned, "as I said, I am surprised that it took this long for you to discover the truth. After all, we are confessed contract killers, and murders such as these require a precise set of skills, no?"

As Octavia stared the man down, tears escaped her tormented eyes, her face scrunched up in anguish. She tried so very hard to formulate a response, but couldn't dismiss the brewing plots of reaching the gun on the dining table. From Hermione's frequent gazes to the revolver, Octavia knew that the woman had the same thought, but neither knew how to reach it without Mr Zabini reacting first. The gentleman still had his gun, and would surely aim it at them should they try and retrieve Mr Malfoy's.

Suddenly, an idea clicked in her tormented mind. Octavia discreetly squeezed Hermione's hand twice, hoping that the woman would understand that what she was about to do was a distraction. But there was no way of knowing if Hermione understood, so all she could do was enact the dramatic performance that she employed frequently throughout her life in order to escape unwanted situations.

Staggering on the spot slightly, Octavia frowned as her eyelids lowered, her hooded gaze remaining on Mr Zabini. His brows furrowed as he observed her, removing the fresh, unlit cigarette from his lips.

"I think …" Octavia breathed, rubbing at her forehead with her free hand. "I do not … feel so well … Oh!"

Abruptly, Octavia's legs buckled beneath her, causing her to collapse to the floor in a heap, the impact providing a thudding noise. Laying limply on the floor, Octavia's eyes fluttered shut as she feigned fainting, a skill she had acquired over the twenty years of her life. It always came in handy in events such as hunting or the races, for it always served to grant her a reprieve from such tedious activities.

Mr Zabini slipped his unlit cigarette into his trouser pocket before he approached the motionless body on the floor, his black eyes assessing her intently. Hermione backed away from the man as he neared, side-stepping around him as though his presence frightened her dreadfully. In a way, it did, but she had ulterior motives. The moment that Mr Zabini dropped to one knee in front of Octavia's chest, Hermione glanced shiftily at Mr Malfoy. The man kept his back to her, but had looked over his shoulder at the unconscious, dramatic woman. He didn't meet Hermione's gaze as he scoffed indelicately before returning his attention to his beverage.

Hermione kept her gaze on Mr Malfoy, watching as his head threw back slightly, evidently taking a hefty gulp of his brandy. Glancing at Mr Zabini, Hermione observed that the hitman was checking Octavia's pulse, but for what reason, she didn't know. For the two gentlemen obviously wanted both women dead – it was in their contract, surely.

Regardless, Hermione didn't have a moment to spare in order to mull over the details. Octavia had given her an opportunity, and she would take it without hesitation.

Suddenly bolting toward the table, Hermione dove in the air, landing harshly on the dining table as she snatched the revolver. Scrambling off the table frantically, Hermione spun around, grabbed the gun with two hands and aimed it directly at Mr Zabini. The man was now standing, his arm twisted around to his back, evidently in the process of retrieving his gun, but Hermione had aimed hers first. Mr Malfoy now faced them, his hard silver eyes fixed on Hermione, but she didn't return the gaze.

"Hands up, Mr Zabini," Octavia said, suddenly not unconscious anymore.

Mr Zabini's jaw ticked at the sound of her voice, but quickly smirked before shaking his head at his own stupidity.

"You are quite the actress, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini said without humour as he raised his hands in the air.

"Thank you, sir," Octavia said as she climbed to her feet and removed the gun from his waistband. "Now kindly go fuck yourself, please."

"No need," Mr Zabini said, his tone suddenly dark. "You have already done so for me."

"Shut up!" Hermione barked, aiming the gun at the tanned man as Octavia aimed hers at Mr Malfoy. "Say another word, sir, and I _will_ shoot."

Octavia raised her brows in surprise as neither gentleman responded. In truth, she honestly didn't think that Hermione was capable of killing anyone, let alone two men she had become acquainted with, even if they were disgusting killers. So the fact that neither man responded, and both obeyed her demand, was quite surprising to Octavia.

"Keep your hands up, Mr Zabini," Hermione ordered, the revolver shaking a little in her trembling hands. "Join Mr Malfoy at the bar, but face me, or I'll shoot, I swear I will shoot you, sir."

Mr Zabini glanced over his shoulder slowly, meeting the watery gaze of Octavia as he regarded her coolly. He returned his stare to Hermione before placing his hands behind his head, turning and walking backwards toward the bar.

Keeping the barrel of the gun aimed at the men, Hermione approached Octavia cautiously, hearing the lady's shaky breaths whisper through the thick air. As she reached the lady, both stepped backwards toward the door at an impossibly slow pace. Neither gentleman moved an inch, both with their hands clasped behind their heads, expressions of complete stone, and eyes as hard as the walls. Their faces betrayed absolutely nothing.

And then he did it. Mr Zabini had the blatant, sheer audacity to wink at Octavia.

"How dare you!" Octavia shrieked, stopping in her tracks, Hermione forced to stop along with her. "How dare you, you absolute swine!"

"Are you frightened, Octavia?" Mr Zabini smirked, his voice smooth and seductive – that voice he used with her in the privacy of her boudoir. "What happened to your certainty that I would not harm you?"

"I thought I knew you, sir," Octavia spat.

"Oh, but My Lady," Mr Zabini grinned widely, "you have always known what I am."

"Lady Sinclair," Hermione whispered, quiet enough that the men couldn't hear, "he is attempting to distract you, My Lady. We have to leave, now."

Octavia nodded, but her furiously sparkling hazel eyes narrowed in on Mr Zabini. As the two women backed away and reached the door, neither man moved, but merely observed them coolly. Even Mr Zabini's grin had faded, and his expression had returned to that of stone.

They backed out of the room cautiously, aware that they could not close the door and lock the men inside, for the doorhandle had been removed entirely. So when they reached the doorway they prepared to run for their lives. And that is exactly what they did. They ran; through the corridors, through the foyer, through the château. But even as they ran to escape the gentlemen in the dining room, Mr Zabini's words echoed out and reached them still. And those words struck brutal fear through both women.

"Ready or not, here we come!"


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

* * *

Panicked breaths ripped through the mouths both women as they ran through the château, hearing the bounding, heavy footsteps of Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini not far behind them. The two women took a sense of comfort in the knowledge that they each possessed fully loaded revolvers, therefore would have the upper hand if the men caught up to them. Still, neither woman had the skills that the gentlemen retained, so neither desired to be caught.

Hermione's free hand shot out and snatched onto the arm of Octavia, veering them both down the central foyer towards the front door. In reality, Hermione knew that there was nowhere to hide, but they could run, and that is what they would do. They would run.

The pair sprinted through the grand foyer, headed right for the door ahead, hearing Mr Malfoy call out for Hermione. The women only increased their frantic pace at the sound of his voice, reaching the door in a matter of seconds. Before Octavia could swing the front door open, Hermione slapped her hand away, shooting her a pointed glance. Slowly, Hermione turned the door handle, ensuring that no squeaks or groans occurred with the movement. Octavia understood the slap she had received. The men hadn't caught up to them yet, and if the door could be heard, they would know where the women had gone. This way, they had a chance …

But a chance at what? Running? Hiding? For how long? For there was no way off the damned island, therefore they were trapped with the killers.

Still; Hermione pulled open the door carefully, only minute creaks sounding out as she slipped through the small crack sneakily. Octavia quickly followed, her footsteps light, ensuring that the sound of her heels wouldn't give her position away – particularly as the gentlemen's swift footsteps drew closer to the foyer.

Once both women were safely through the door, Hermione exercised great care in closing the door silently. Octavia even held her breath as the nearly inaudible click sounded out. Thankfully, the heaviness of the rain pouring down from the clouds drowned out the click of the door, as well as the clacking of their heels as they took off at a sprint along the patio.

Leading the way, Hermione raced in the direction of the shrubbery ahead, realising that it was the only object within their vicinity that would grant them concealment from the gentlemen. There was nowhere else to hide. The island was far too small, void of any hills or buildings. The best they could do in that moment was hide in plain sight, and hope for the storm to pass quickly. However, that still left them with the challenge of escaping the island.

Dismissing the issue of escape, Hermione focused on her current task – evading the killers who were presumably searching the château for the women. As she reached the cluster of bushes, Hermione clumsily climbed over the fence before hurling herself down into the thick shrubbery. She groaned upon impact, finding that it was much harsher than she had anticipated. Following her lead, Octavia hopped over the fence and sprung down to join Hermione in the bushes, her landing surprisingly graceful and almost skilled.

Hermione stretched upwards as she sat on her knees, peeking through the gaps of wood in the fence. Her eyes widened suddenly as the château door swung open, the two gentlemen barging out onto the patio, evidently furious as they glanced around the outdoors, searching for the escaped victims. Stifling a gasp, Hermione dropped to soggy ground, the swift movement alerting Octavia to the gentlemen's presence, causing her to quickly join her on the mulch.

"Octavia!" Mr Zabini's cold voice rang out, carrying in the billowing winds around them. "Octavia, I am not going to harm you! Come back!"

Octavia remained on the muddy ground, concealed by thick leaves and branches, her wide horrified eyes glued to Hermione's as they lay facing one another. Hermione shook her head ever so slightly, communicating that she should not believe him. It was a moot gesture – Octavia was in no way prepared to return to the company of the killer.

"Hermione!" Mr Malfoy bellowed, referring to her by her first name – something he had not done before now.

Hermione instantly realised that he was attempting to play on her emotions. He was attempting to stir the latent trust within her, and rouse the affections she harboured for him. Unfortunately for Mr Malfoy, she, too, was in no way prepared to return to the gentlemen.

The women stiffened, attempting to labour their harsh breaths, as the sound of heavy footsteps gradually neared their vicinity. Expensive shoes thumped against the soaked wood of the patio, only one of the gentlemen approaching them, but it was impossible to ascertain who.

Utterly concealed by the bushes, Hermione and Octavia both curled up into the foetal position to further minimalize their noticeability. However, they were not protected from the rain that poured down on the muddy ground around them, drenching the two women in a matter of moments. Both resisted the urge to shiver from the cold already assaulting their bodies, gazing into one another's glassy eyes for comfort as the footsteps came to a stop at the fence just above them. Hermione and Octavia held their breaths in suspense as the gentleman lingered by the barrier, presumably gazing out to the cliff-side and down the side of the château for any signs of the women.

The fear almost radiated from both women, increasing tenfold as another set of footsteps drew closer to the fence, indicating that the second hitman was approaching. Octavia was the first to give in to the terror, tears spilling out of her big hazel eyes, her face scrunched up in dread. The men were so close that Hermione thought it rather likely that they would be spotted in a matter of seconds. Still, she remained silent and motionless, exercising great patience, and of course, hope. It was all they had in that moment – hope.

Octavia's hands cautiously moved towards Hermione's, clutching onto them tightly as they waited to be seen. Hermione's fingers instantly entwined with Octavia's, sharing the fear and comfort with her as they remained silent. Hermione recognised the betrayal in Octavia's teary eyes, for she felt it too. The sensation was most agonising; tearing apart at her soul, shredding her heart to pieces, and most of all, taunting her idiocy for trusting Mr Malfoy. Both women had given themselves to their respective gentlemen, only to be betrayed in the worst of ways. It was simply wretched, but Hermione resisted the urge to cry over her emotional agony, and focus only on the need to escape.

"There are no footprints in the mud," Mr Malfoy's cold voice informed, much too close for the women's comfort. "They must be inside."

"Perhaps we should inform her," Mr Zabini sighed. "It wouldn't do for them to encounter one another without our presence – we have a job to finish, and I don't want any further obstacles preventing that."

No response could be heard by either woman, but the shuffling of shoes against the wooden patio sounded out. A brief pause lingered in the air before the footsteps of the men could be heard retreating back toward the front door. However, even as the front door opened and slammed shut, neither woman moved an inch for fear of a trap. Instead, they lay there, facing one another, hand in hand, in a perfectly awful silence.

But even through the silence, the confusion was clear. For the gentlemen had seemingly spoken in riddles of another woman, and dangerous encounters. It was all very suspicious, but neither Hermione nor Octavia wished to be enlightened – they merely wished to escape and never look back at Durrem Island.

*.*.*

Shivering violently, both women remained on the muddy ground beneath the bushes as the rain continued to pour down on them. Each tiny droplet felt like a needle stabbing at their raw skin, but the rain did not relent. They had waited for little more than an hour beneath the bushes, unwilling to speak, both women frantically attempting to decide on their next move. The gentlemen had not returned to the patio since disappearing back into the château, which gave the women reason to suspect that they were currently being hunted throughout the manor house.

If there was any opportune moment for the women to flee the bushes, it was then. However, they were aware that there was nowhere else to go. Inside of the home were two killers; down by the cliffs was the stormy sea and sandy shore; out on the land of the island was nothing but complete visibility. The bushes remained the only safe hiding spot for the women. If they left the bushes, they would be visible – and therefore, vulnerable – to the hitmen.

The bleakness of their circumstance had certainly struck both Hermione and Octavia. No longer weeping, the women simply gazed at one another with weary eyes, neither able to formulate a plan in such dire environments. The never-ending plague of rain hardly assisted the situation – in fact, it only increased their sense of defeat and misery. Yes, the two women possessed fully loaded revolvers, but what use were they really? If they were to kill the two gentlemen, the matter remained: They were trapped on the island.

All Hermione and Octavia were able to do in that moment was think, pray and hope. Hermione did all three, of course; however, she couldn't piece together the puzzle of Durrem Island. It didn't make sense in her weary mind. Perhaps she was merely in no state to exercise logic and intellect, given her hunger, tiredness, aching skull, drenched body, and fear. Still, she just couldn't understand it all.

Only the day prior, Hermione had followed the two gentlemen down into the kitchens, and had proceeded to eavesdrop on their private conversation. They both had spoken of their romantic and genuine sentiments for their respective women, which Hermione now found most perplexing. The gentlemen had wholly contradicted themselves. If they truly cared for Octavia and herself to that extent, they would not have been hunting them. This caused Hermione to suspect that they had been aware of her presence in the kitchens, and had tailored their conversation to her prying ears.

However, even if that were the case, it left a few things to be answered. Firstly, in the kitchens, the men had discussed sacrifices. Hermione did not know what that had meant at the time, but it was beginning to make sense to her now. Sacrifices had to be made for the gentlemen to pursue Octavia and Hermione respectively. Now, she suspected that to be in regards to their contracts – they would be sacrificing their agreements with the mysterious employer to court the women. The mysterious employer – Lady Sarina Koppsynn – could be the very woman the two men had discussed on the patio.

The greatest mystery of all, to Hermione, was of the men's intentions. Now that it was known that they were the killers, Hermione couldn't understand their reasoning for continuing to deny the truth. Even after the death of Ginevra Weasley, both Mr Zabini and Mr Malfoy had rejected all ownership of murdering the guests at the château. It wasn't until Hermione and Octavia had pieced together the majority of the puzzle that they finally admitted to their participation in the murders. But why wait until the women had figured it out? Why not just kill them then, in the dining room, before they could discover the truth for themselves? Why delay the inevitable? It just didn't make sense to Hermione.

Unless …

It was possible that the gentlemen had truly fallen for the women. It was possible that Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini wished to feign innocence in their circumstances, save the women, and never admit to any crimes. That way, the women would undoubtedly believe them to be heroes, and not the killers they truly are. That way, the women would allow themselves to return the sentiments of the men who had saved their lives, in more ways than they could have known. Perhaps the gentlemen had decided to abandon their contracts in favour of securing the affections of their respective women?

Even if it were so, it did not seem that way in that moment. For Mr Zabini and Mr Malfoy were evidently searching for them in the château, and had recruited the assistance of their employer; the employer that was so clearly a woman, if Mr Zabini's statement was anything to go by.

Hauling Hermione from her thoughts, Octavia moved for the first time in an hour, rolling around to lay on her back. Hermione frowned as she watched the sluggish movements, finding it strange that the lady would opt to face the rain falling down upon them. Then again, her body may already be aching – much like Hermione's – and she therefore wished to change her position.

Keeping her gaze on the lady, Hermione watched Octavia's long lashes flutter as she closed her eyes, almost welcoming the downpour assaulting her body. Hermione could almost taste the defeat emanating from the lady. It was so very bitter.

"We should move," Octavia croaked, so quietly that Hermione barely heard her. "They will soon be done searching the château."

"Where to?" Hermione whispered, her tone equally as miserable as the lady's.

"The shore," Octavia breathed, opening her eyes to gaze up at the dispersing clouds. "The storm is passing. Now is our prime opportunity, Miss Granger. It is now or never."

Despite not believing that the shore offered any further opportunities than the bushes they currently lay beneath, Hermione nodded marginally. Either way, they were doomed. Yet, Octavia appeared to have a brewing plot of sorts, and Hermione had no choice to place all of her hope onto the lady's potentially successful scheme.

With slow and sluggish movements, Hermione shifted around on the mud to sit on her knees before peeking over the patio. Her eyes shiftily glanced between windows, checking for any sign of motion, ensuring that they would not be seen fleeing the bushes. There were no visions of either gentlemen or the mysterious Lady Koppsynn to be seen, thankfully.

"Let's go," Hermione whispered, tucking the revolver into her stocking strap as Octavia watched. The lady frowned a little in judgement before remembering her circumstances, and deciding to follow suit.

Once both women had slipped the guns into their stocking straps, they scrambled onto all fours and crawled through the line of thick, green bushes. If their appearances were not grimy before, they certainly were now – brown and blonde curls were coated and splatted with clumps of dirt from the soil; Octavia's expensive lilac dress was now smeared in grime and leaves, as was Hermione's cheaper black dress; stockings had torn on the branches of the shrubs, and shoes were caked in muck. Even their faces wore the traces of the earth they crawled on.

The end of the bushes came far too quickly. The women faltered at the last bush in the line of shrubbery, not truly prepared to run out into the open where they could be seen. But Octavia decided that they must, and climbed to her feet, crouching into a predatory position. However, Hermione knew that the position was not predatory, but one of prey – ready to sprint away from danger swiftly. Following suit, Hermione licked her soaked lips clean of the rainwater, drinking in the only source of hydration accessible to her in that moment. The two women shared an anxious look, communicating that neither truly wished to escape the bushes, but also relaying that they didn't have another option available to them.

 _'Now,'_ Octavia mouthed clearly, Hermione nodding her head once in agreement.

Abruptly, the two women jumped to their feet, but not before using their hands to push them off into a sprint. Squidgy squelching noises surrounded the two women as they ran over the drenched grass, their heels slipping on the muddy dirt as they went. But they continued to run, keeping the other's swift pace, their faces and cold bodies attacked by the sharp, unrelenting droplets of rain.

Chancing a glance over her shoulder as she ran, Hermione allowed her wide eyes to scan the manor house behind them. There were no signs of the hitmen in her line of vision, and most windows showed dark, unlit rooms within the Murder House. It gave her a shard of hope amidst the despair as she ran, for it seemed as though they had not been noticed.

The harsh breaths of both women were almost drowned out by the furious pitter-patter of the rainfall, but soon into their sprint, another sound could be heard: Strong, foamy waves crashing against the nearing cliff sides boomed through the already noisy air. Hermione would have thought the sound to be almost tranquil in any other circumstance, however it only served to increase her sense of absolute dread and defeat. For the waves were much too high to offer the women any semblance of escape from the island. Only a terrifically strong swimmer – apparently, like Mr Malfoy – could swim against the forceful tide without bother, and neither woman fit that much needed category.

Octavia did not seem to be deterred, however, and kept sprinting with all her might in the very direction of the stony shores down the cliff ahead. Hermione maintained Octavia's swift pace, both women panting loudly, but Hermione found herself to rather confused. The cliff they were fast approaching was the very one to face the mainland eight miles out, but there was no plausible reason to venture to the shore, for neither woman could reach the mainland via the only route – swimming.

Again, Hermione glanced over her shoulder just before they reached the rocky slope down to the shore, relieved to see that the hitmen were not visible to her once more. Thankfully, it seemed that they hadn't been noticed, therefore Hermione presumed that the gentlemen were still searching every nook and cranny of the manor house in the distance.

"Watch your step, Miss Granger!" Octavia shouted, her voice almost carried away in the whistling winds. "It is quite rocky!"

Hermione nodded as the two women stumbled to a stop at the tip of the cliff, their wild curls billowing and whipping around their faces. Octavia led the way, kicking off her mud-grimed heels to assist her balance. The sheer amount of dirt layers on their shoes could potentially cause either one of them to slip on their descending climb down the rocks, so Hermione quickly kicked off her own heels too before joining Octavia.

Rock by rock, they climbed down the cliff side, moving with absolute caution and care. Surprisingly, Hermione slipped only a handful of times, whereas Octavia slipped not once. The dexterity of the lady was most shocking to Hermione, for in truth, Hermione had assumed the lady to be weak and dependent. Yet, in that particular moment, Octavia had taken charge, whilst climbing down the jagged cliff side like a slinking cat. The lady's athleticism was hardly expected, but Hermione used it to her advantage, and copied Octavia's movements precisely.

Two metres off the ground, Octavia suddenly propelled herself from the cliff side, landing perfectly on the rocky, sandy shores of the island. Hermione twisted around to frown at the woman, watching as Octavia brushed her hands together to remove whatever traces of dirt she could. Deciding against copying Octavia's jump, Hermione carefully descended the remaining rocks as Octavia waited patiently below.

"Miss Granger," Octavia called out. "You will have to push yourself from the rocks, as there are boulders beneath you. If you land on them, the solidity of the boulders could break your ankle, Miss Granger."

Hermione sighed audibly, remaining still as she dangled on the cliff side. After a brief pause she glanced down between her body and the cliff, assessing how far off the rocky ground she was. Apparently she was much too slow for Lady Sinclair's liking.

"Miss Granger, do make haste!" Octavia snapped up at her. "We are attempting to flee two contract killers, not a frail old woman!"

Groaning in palpable reluctance, Hermione pressed her body firmly against the jagged cliff. Suddenly, she propelled herself from the rocks, biting her lip in the process to ensure that she did not scream. A scream could potentially cause the killers to locate them. Landing with a thud on the sandy shore, Hermione hissed in pain, for the impact caused an aching jolt to shoot from her ankle to her knee.

Octavia grabbed her arm and assisted her to a standing position, making no effort to exercise delicateness or care. Hermione ignored the pain in her leg, for it was not too severe, and allowed Octavia to turn her around to face the seashore.

The cliff enclosed the beachy plot in a U-shape, and the narrow, rickety boardwalk stood strongly in the waves whirling onto the shore. The cliff possessed so many jagged rocks that there were several cracks and crevices which could be described as small caves, big enough for only one or two people at once. The sight of the miniscule caves was rather startling to Hermione, for it had been made clear by Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini that there was nowhere to hide on the island. But she quickly remembered who she was running from, and therefore scolded herself for such silly thoughts.

Octavia eyed the seawaters with an analytical expression, her nose scrunched up in concentration. Hermione had no clue as to what the lady was calculating in her churning mind, but silently followed her regardless as Octavia stepped closer to the foamy water residue. Their stockings were already drenched from the downpour of rain, but now felt considerably uncomfortable with the beads of sand sneaking their way in. Hermione wished for nothing more than fresh garments, dry weathers, a warm bath, and most of all, a boat. Alas, none of those desires seemed possible.

"The mainland is eight miles," Octavia thought aloud, her gaze glued to the sea water ahead. "A straight line ahead, I believe."

"Without a boat, we are unable to return to the mainland," Hermione frowned, eyeing the woman curiously.

The sound of rocks cracking together caught their attentions, both women whipping around to face the cliff side they had just climbed down. But there was nothing to see, except one rock rolling down some larger ones before landing on the sand. Dismissing it entirely, they returned their attentions and gazes to the sea ahead.

"I can swim to the mainland," Octavia said, her tone calculating as she assessed the journey. "I can make it to the mainland in an estimated two hours. I will retrieve assistance at the harbour and return for you, Miss Granger. You may hide in one of the little caves in the cliff until I return."

Hermione's brows creased together as she slowly moved her gaze from the sea to the lady beside her. Octavia remained facing the shore, a pensive expression on her dirty, yet pretty face. Something ticked in Hermione's mind, gnawing at her suspicions relentlessly until she realised.

"Lady Sinclair," Hermione said cautiously, discreetly removing the revolver from her stocking strap. "I distinctly recall your claim that you cannot swim."

Octavia's expression swiftly transformed from a pensive one to a blank one, her body stiffening instantly, but she remained facing – and gazing – at the sea.

"You claimed that you had not learned how to swim," Hermione breathed, clasping the handle of the gun tightly in her hand. "That was the reason for your brother's death, was it not? That neither of you knew how to swim? That is what you said, Lady Sinclair."

Hard hazel eyes slowly met Hermione's gaze as Octavia turned her head. The sheer coldness in Octavia's eyes confronted Hermione wholly, causing adrenaline and fear to surge through her body. It almost appeared as though the lady was empty … void of anything and everything, but filled with nothing. Hermione knew … She was seeing behind the mask.

"That is exactly what Lady Sinclair said, isn't it?" Mr Zabini's humorous tone rang out, carrying through the winds that billowed around them.

Hermione whipped around to face the gentleman, seeing Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini at the bottom of the cliff side. She hadn't heard either man climb down the rocks, and as they had clearly heard the conversation between the two women, Hermione suddenly realised that they had been in one of the little caves surrounding them – watching them, like hunters observing prey.

Both men stood with their hands in their pockets, Mr Zabini smirking triumphantly as Mr Malfoy kept his hard gaze on Hermione. Octavia still faced the seashore, but had glanced over her shoulder at the men before retrieving the gun from her stocking strap.

"We have ourselves a pretty, little liar, it would seem." Mr Zabini grinned, both men approaching the women slowly –not cautiously, but predatorily.

Octavia made no move to assist as Hermione aimed the gun at the two men, the barrel pointing directly between them as they approached. Mr Zabini assessed the side of Octavia's face, observing her cold and emotionless expression with a smirk on his pink lips. Hermione realised that he was seeing Octavia too – the real Octavia, that is. The one beneath the charade that they had all come to know. The ugliness inside of her. Little did Hermione know, it was not ugly to Mr Zabini – it was raw and beautiful.

Slowly, Octavia grasped onto the revolver and lifted it, aiming it directly at Mr Zabini as she turned to face him. Hermione shifted her own gun to aim at Mr Malfoy instead, but the two hitmen didn't falter in the slightest, and instead, continued to approach them with predatory movements. Their slinking approaches were akin to regal tigers closing in on their prey.

"Put down the gun, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy said, unfazed by the barrel pointed directly at him.

"Stop!" Hermione screeched shakily, her hands trembling from adrenaline and coldness. "Stop, or I will shoot, Mr Malfoy!"

"Lower the gun, Hermione," Mr Malfoy growled, palpably angry that she dared aim his own weapon at him a second time. "Lower it, and you will not be harmed."

"You are a liar, sir! You will kill us both!" Hermione shrieked, side-glancing at the stoic Octavia. The woman still aimed her revolver at the approaching Mr Zabini, but wasn't nearly as distressed as Hermione.

"Give me the gun!" Mr Malfoy bellowed, Hermione wincing instinctively.

Her hands trembled violently as she slipped her index finger around the trigger, fresh streams of tears falling down her already drenched cheeks. The gun shook in her hands, but remained aimed at the approaching man, watching as he continued to close the distance between them. Suddenly, Mr Malfoy made to lunge at her, but Hermione screamed as she shut her eyes and pulled the trigger.

And nothing happened.

Hermione snapped open her eyes, gazing in astonishment at the hitman as he glowered at her furiously. No bang or booms of the gun ripped through the air, and no gunshot wound showed on Mr Malfoy's body at all. But the barrel of the gun now pressed firmly against his chest, right at his heart as he stared down at her with fierce, furious, fiery eyes.

Hermione shrieked as he snatched the gun from hands, their wrestling match lasting a mere millisecond before he successfully retrieved the revolver. Mr Malfoy's upper lip curled in anger as he grabbed her neck and shoved her away from him harshly, the force sending her to the sand in a heap.

Sprawled out on the sand, Hermione propped herself up on her elbows as she gazed fearfully at the hitman. Octavia slowly dropped to her knees beside her, Mr Zabini apparently having retrieved his revolver in the same fashion as Mr Malfoy. The Italian gentleman also aimed his revolver down at his respective woman, his black eyes cold, like pits of nothingness. However, Octavia hardly looked as terrified as Hermione. Yes, the lady appeared to show resistance in her scowling expression, but not necessarily fear.

Both gentlemen aimed their guns at each woman, staring down at them with cold eyes. Mr Malfoy flicked his thumb over the back of the weapon, a click sounding out at the movement. His gaze remained hard as he stared down at her, but Hermione saw the taunting glint amidst the silver – he was taunting her, for she had not switched off the safety on the revolver.

"It is not only us," Mr Malfoy spat, aiming the barrel of the gun directly at Hermione's terrified face.

Mr Malfoy kept the gun aimed at the weeping woman as he inclined his head to the left, in the general direction of a cave. Hermione cried silently as she glanced at the cave he gestured to, her eyes widening in horror at what she saw.

A woman emerged from the cave, stepping down the slope of rocks gracefully. Black hair curtained her aristocratic face, and her blue eyes spoke of nothing but cruelty and madness. Suddenly, Hermione screamed wretchedly at the sight of the woman, for she was witnessing the return of the dead – something that should only occur in the pits of hell. But Octavia didn't scream. The lady only narrowed her eyes at the approaching woman, her jaw ticking and lips puckering in distaste.

The woman walking towards them was none other than Lady Pansy Parkinson.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

* * *

Hermione and Octavia sat on their knees in the rain, curls stuck to the sides of their faces as the sand beneath them crept into their torn stockings. Hermione was unable to resist the horror that plagued her from the sight of Lady Parkinson strolling towards them, but Octavia seemed perfectly at ease. Guns were pointed at both of their faces, but only Hermione showed true terror at the threat, whereas Octavia simply glowered at the approaching Lady who had been her close friend since childhood. But Hermione was quickly realising that Octavia was not the woman she had thought her to be, so couldn't be surprised at the sheer coldness on her dirtied face.

"Well done, gentlemen," Pansy drawled, dressed in an impeccable beaded dress, T-bar heels, and a winter coat. "I am most impressed, for I had almost entertained the prospect that the women would evade you both."

"No one escapes us," Mr Zabini grinned widely, a glint of pride in his black eyes as he continued to stare at the cold Octavia.

"You were dead!" Hermione screeched, hiccupping violently from the intensity of her sobs. "I saw you!"

"Evidently, I was not dead," Lady Parkinson drawled, seemingly bored as she came to a stop beside Mr Zabini.

"No," Hermione choked, shaking her head frantically. "I saw it … I saw Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy inspect your body!"

"Did you?" Pansy smirked, quirking her brow patronisingly. "Did Mr Potter touch my body? Did he check for a pulse, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's face scrunched up in absolute anguish as fresh tears of defeat rolled down her soppy cheeks. Neither man showed any signs of emotion as they kept the guns aimed at the women, but Pansy seemed to be rather proud of herself.

"That pathetic police officer is incompetent in the best of circumstances, let alone in the face of true danger," Pansy scoffed delicately, glancing at the stone-cold Octavia. "Only Mr Malfoy here assessed my body for a pulse, and fooled you all. It was not difficult, for each one of you had grown accustomed to the increasing deaths around you. In fact, I found it all to be quite effortless."

"Why?" Octavia asked, her voice as cold as her expression. "What was the purpose, Pansy?"

"The purpose?" Pansy shrilled, her composure suddenly cracking. "The purpose, Octavia? Are you mad, or simply stupid?"

"I am neither," Octavia drawled dangerously, her hazel eyes darkening considerably. "However, we both know that you are the insane one, Pansy."

"Perhaps," Pansy countered darkly. "Or, perhaps I am merely a victim of others' crimes, and am only seeking justice?"

"Justice?" Hermione snivelled. "Justice is for the law to issue, Lady Parkinson. What you have done here is _murder_ , not justice. It is revenge, and you are nothing more than a killer."

"Revenge and justice can be one of the same, can it not?" Pansy smirked. "My father was always of the belief that revenge was an inferior act, and only brought the perpetrator bitterness and regret – I have discovered that it is quite the contrary. It has been simply magnificent to provide the guilty with their very fitting punishments, and finally, it is time to penalise you both."

Pansy paused as she glanced between the two kneeling women, assessing them each intently. Her blue eyes sparkled with triumph and schemes, but Octavia showed no fear as she raised her nose snootily in the air. Hermione willed her sobs to decrease in strength, but the task was difficult, for the overwhelming dread within her would not be appeased.

"Initially, I had intended for Octavia to perish last, but now that I am here," Pansy explained thoughtfully, repeatedly glancing between the women. "Well, I am drawn into temptation I suppose. Miss Granger shall be the last to die."

"We do not deserve this!" Hermione shrieked. "Our crimes were unavoidable, Lady Parkinson! Please, have mercy!"

"Oh, but you did!" Pansy shrilled, eyes widening as her madness morphed at her aristocratic features. "You both took the lives of innocents! You, Miss Granger, took the life of my brother!"

"I did not!" Hermione shouted, both gentlemen listening attentively, evidently entertained by the dramatics of the final showdown. But neither lowered their guns or showed sufficient signs of distraction. "I promise you, Lady Parkinson, I did not murder anyone, let alone your brother! You are mistaken!"

"Lies, lies, lies!" Pansy screamed, trembling in the cold air, eyes almost bulging out of her head. "You killed him, you did! Tell the truth, Miss Granger! Atone for your sins, lest you burn in hell for all eternity!"

"I cannot confess to a crime I did not commit," Hermione choked out, beyond defeated. "I am innocent, My Lady. I did not –"

"Liar!" Pansy shrieked, storming toward her.

The Lady slapped Hermione harshly, the crack ripping through the stormy air as Hermione winced from the sharp pain. Octavia simply watched the assault occur with cold eyes, not attempting to assist or plead her case to the madwoman. Hermione kept her face turned to the side as Pansy glowered down at her, the lady removing a thin, long, sharp knife from her coat pocket.

"If you will not confess on your own accord, Miss Granger," Pansy spat, "I will cut the truth out of you. I will hear your admission to your sins before I allow you the mercy of death."

"Miss Granger," Octavia sighed, "please confess to the sin you have committed. It will save much bother and pain on your part."

"I did not," Hermione whimpered, shaking her head furiously. "I swear on it, I am innocent."

"I am the only innocent among us!" Pansy shrieked, pushing the tip of the blade against Hermione's cheek. "Provide me with further dishonesties, Miss Granger, I beg of you."

"It changes nothing," Hermione groaned. "Admissions and confessions will not bring your brother back to life, Lady Parkinson! My death will not revive him!"

"Ah," Pansy grinned insanely. "But it will bring peace to his restless soul in the afterlife. You owe my dearly departed brother that."

"In the afterlife?" Hermione blubbered. "Your brother is in hell, Lady Parkinson!"

"For what reason do you claim that?" Pansy gritted through her clenched teeth, the tip of the blade piercing the soaked skin of Hermione's cheek, causing a droplet of blood to trickle down her face.

Hermione clenched her jaw tightly, her watery eyes shutting as she braced against the blade assaulting her. Octavia observed her interestedly, as did Mr Malfoy, but Mr Zabini kept his gaze – and gun – on Octavia.

"It was self-defence," Hermione whispered after a while, struggling with her confession as Pansy's eyes widened madly. "I did not know he was your brother – I did not know the man at all."

"But you killed him, didn't you, Miss Granger?" Pansy urged, giddy with dangerous excitement and anticipation. "You stabbed by brother, and left him for dead in an alley, yes?"

"Yes," Hermione breathed almost inaudibly, her eyes fluttering open to reveal fresh tears and absolute misery. "I did."

Pansy bared her gritted teeth in a feral manner, the look far from aristocratic. Octavia remained perfectly stoic as she eyed Miss Granger, while Mr Malfoy did the same. Mr Zabini quirked his brow in mild surprise before using his free hand to fish out a cigarette from his trouser pocket and light it effortlessly. As he smoked the cigarette, his gun remained pointed at Octavia, but his black eyes were fixed on Pansy as she hummed and moved to stand between the two hitmen of her employment.

"And why did you kill my brother, Miss Granger?" Pansy asked calmly, her temperament suddenly shifting to patience.

"You already know the answer to that, Lady Parkinson," Hermione murmured, far past despair.

"Say it!" Pansy demanded, causing Hermione to flinch slightly.

"You wish for me to assert the despicable being that your brother was?" Hermione seethed, daring to gaze up at the madwoman. "Your brother was nothing more than a rapist, Lady Parkinson! Your _beloved_ brother stole me from the street and dragged me into an alley. He held a knife against my throat … He almost … It entered me – it tore my soul apart, but he became too lost in the moment, and I took that knife from him and I stabbed him before he could rob me of my maidenhead, Lady Parkinson! Your brother was nothing more than a drunken swine of a man, and demonstrated the behaviour of a depraved, entitled miscreant! He deserved what he got!"

"My dear brother would have only approached a whore," Pansy spat venomously. "He was no rapist!"

"Yes, he was," Octavia said, so quietly that her voice was almost unheard to the others.

Mr Zabini's black eyes softened instantly as he gazed down at the stoic lady, but Octavia's expression did not change from the hardness it exuded.

"How dare you!" Pansy shrilled, pointing the blade at the cold woman. "Edward was the most gentlemanly person I have ever known!"

"He was a rapist and a scoundrel," Octavia growled bravely, narrowed eyes glowering up at the lady. "I am certain of it, for I learned first-hand what Edward was capable of. The day I discovered his death was a sad one, for I regret that I had not been the one to kill him."

"And what of Oscar?" Pansy snarled down at her. "Was he a rapist? A scoundrel that you falsely accuse my brother of being? What was your reason for killing your own brother, and my fiancé, Octavia?"

"That is a different matter entirely," Octavia smirked cruelly, pure evil glistening in her eyes.

"Yes, I am very aware of the pits of darkness within you, Octavia," Pansy drawled coolly. "How many innocents have you killed? Do you dare admit to the atrocity you are?"

Octavia remained silent as she stared up at the lady, her expression and eyes entirely void of emotion. Hermione glanced between the two ladies curiously, her vision almost totally obscured by her tears and the rainfall.

"I only killed Oscar," Octavia admitted after a pause. "He was set to inherit the entire estate due to his gender, which I found wholly unfair."

"You killed your brother for money?" Hermione breathed, in total disbelief as she stared at the lady.

Octavia shrugged gracefully, displaying no regret. "I promised to swim with him, for he was never a very strong swimmer, but I drowned him in the middle of the lake. Unfortunately, a footboy had witnessed the scene, but he was removed shortly after." – at this, Octavia pointedly glanced at the two stoic hitmen, both of whom had been hired by her father to kill the footman – "And now, I am to inherit the full estate when I marry. I was fond of Oscar, but I am much fonder of my wealth."

A smirk twisted at Mr Zabini's lips as he inhaled a deep drag of his cigarette, his gaze fixed on the unapologetic woman kneeling in front of him. Octavia fleetingly met his gaze, but her expression remained emotionless as she returned her attentions to Pansy.

"You killed the stable boy," Pansy accused, pointing the tip of the blade at her. "You killed him because he was my friend!"

"Oh, please," Octavia rolled her eyes dismissively. "I saw the kiss you shared with him in the stables – you were much more than friends, Pansy. And I did not kill him, so bore another with your empty accusations."

"I saw you kill him," Pansy snapped.

"You saw nothing," Octavia sniffed snootily. "I was a mere child at the time of his death – do you truly believe that an eight-year-old girl could kill a person?"

"You were always fascinated by death, Octavia," Pansy countered dangerously. "When the governess tumbled down the stairs, you … you just stood there, watching her die … I called for help, but you did not! You were only a child, but that look in your eyes as you watched her die … I will never forget it."

"Like you said," Octavia drawled, "I was only a child, no more than six, therefore, it is understandable that I was … _curious_."

"It is not!" Pansy shouted. "It is not understandable. You were _fascinated_ , Octavia, not 'curious'. It became an obsession! You murdered frogs by the ponds, you killed snails and slugs and chickens, and you did murder the stable boy!"

"I did not murder him," Octavia sighed. "I simply … pushed him."

"Towards the back of a wild horse!" Pansy shrieked. "That is murder, you demented woman!"

"A matter of opinion," Octavia drawled. "I can hardly be held accountable for the horse kicking the boy, can I? After all, I was only a girl."

To put it simply, Hermione was in a complete state of shock. Her wide brown eyes gazed stupidly at Lady Sinclair, unable to fathom the true madness she witnessed. Hermione had been alone with this cold-blooded killer for the past two hours, and worst of all, she had _trusted_ her. A killer! She had trusted a killer. One who killed for no purpose but entertainment and curiosity. It was sickening. So sickening, in fact, that Hermione was sure she would vomit at any given moment.

"You are an astounding actress, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini grinned, smoking his cigarette as he stared down at the woman in pure fascination and admiration. "Each corpse you came across sent you into an emotional frenzy, yet all along, you felt no such trauma at witnessing them."

"My performance fooled you, sir," Octavia smirked up at him, a glint in her eyes that Hermione couldn't decipher, but Mr Zabini appeared to read it effortlessly.

"Indeed it did," Mr Zabini laughed, flicking his cigarette onto the foamy sand. "Bravo."

Pansy's gaze darted between the two suspiciously, clearly displeased at the interaction taking place. "Enough!" Pansy demanded, regaining the attention of the others. "There will be no need for either of you to converse."

"Have I not proven myself to you already, Lady Parkinson?" Mr Zabini asked, quirking his brow at the lady. "You harboured doubts that I would proceed with the assignment in regards to Lady Sinclair, but here we are, yet you still display doubts."

Pansy considered the tanned man for a moment before nodding once in approval. "You are correct, Mr Zabini, forgive me. However, my doubts were reasonable at first. It was clear to me that both my employees began to grow romantic inclinations toward these two despicable women, so I cannot regret harbouring concerns."

"Lady Sinclair is not the only great performer here," Mr Malfoy smirked cruelly down at Hermione. "It was all too easy to woo and bed the women prior to this moment – the moment that we, ourselves, will deliver them to their deaths."

"Wait!" Hermione gasped as Mr Malfoy slipped his index finger around the trigger. "How did it all occur?"

"Pardon me?" Pansy laughed cruelly, twirling the blade in her hand leisurely.

"The murders," Hermione explained breathlessly. "How did they occur? Was it you, Lady Parkinson, who assaulted me in the bathroom? Did you ring the gong?"

Octavia side-glanced at Hermione, realising that she was attempting to delay the inevitable, but Pansy was so engrossed in her own ego to not notice.

"I attacked you in the bathroom, yes," Pansy smiled, nodding as she spoke. "I, of course, thought you to be dead from the assault, so I climbed out of the window. It was not your time to die, but I feared that Mr Malfoy would not be able to end your life as he was assigned to do so, for I wondered if his sentiments in your regard were genuine or not."

"And the gong?" Octavia prompted, shiftily glancing at Hermione, hoping that the woman had a plan in place. "Did you strike the gong, Pansy?"

"Yes," Pansy smiled, definitely proud of herself and her orchestrated schemes. "Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini killed Ginevra, and after I had seen to your assault, Miss Granger, I struck the gong and returned to the caves."

"The others?" Hermione uttered hurriedly. "What of the others?"

"Well, you have both figured out the deaths of Mr Potter and Mr Nott, no?" Mr Malfoy smirked. "I, myself, saw to Mr Black's death. I killed Mrs Longbottom too, as Mr Zabini was preoccupied with Lady Sinclair."

"Mr Longbottom was taken care of by myself when Lady Sinclair and I checked on Lady Parkinson," Mr Zabini informed, black eyes fixed on Octavia's cold stare. "After I knocked you out, of course, Lady Sinclair. My sincerest apologies."

Octavia's jaw ticked in annoyance as he grinned widely, but she didn't respond, opting to continue glowering up at the man dangerously. If Hermione didn't know any better, she would think there was a glint of betrayal or hurt in those hazel eyes, but as Octavia was so clearly an emotionless woman, it couldn't be the case.

"Technically the brandy killed Mr Wilby," Mr Malfoy mused with a smirk. "However, I was the one to lace the bottle with cyanide. We both lynched Mr Potter – by far my favourite kill of the assignment – and you already know of Miss Weasley's death."

"Splendid," Pansy smiled tranquilly as Mr Zabini lit himself another cigarette, the gentleman seeming perfectly at ease. "Now that that's done with, let us move on, shall we?"

"Wait!" Hermione cried, desperate to stall further.

"No!" Pansy shrieked, her eyes glinting with insanity. "No more waiting! I have waited long enough, and will not delay for another minute! It is time for you both to die!"

"Any last words, Octavia?" Mr Zabini grinned, smoking his cigarette casually as he stared down at her.

Octavia met his stare, neither faltering as they assessed one another. To Hermione, it almost seemed as though they were communicating with their gazes alone, but that was preposterous, was it not? Mr Zabini could only be mocking her with his stormy black eyes, much like Mr Malfoy's silver eyes were with Hermione.

"Yes," Octavia sniffed after a pause, coming to an ultimate decision on her last ever words. "My final words are: I regret nothing."

"Miss Granger?" Mr Malfoy prompted as Mr Zabini chuckled lightly. "Last words?"

"Yes," Hermione whispered in complete misery. "Why?"

"Excuse me, Miss Granger?" Pansy scoffed, stepping toward the kneeling woman. " _Why_?"

"That is what I said."

"What each one of you has done …" Pansy paused, inhaling deeply in an evident bid for patience, coming to a stop directly in front of Hermione. "Every crime committed by each one of you has destroyed me. I had it all, Miss Granger – I had a loving family, a respectable fiancé, wealth and endless horizons of prospects … I had everything a woman could dream of. And then, one by one, each of you chipped away at my life and happiness, leaving only misery in your wakes. I was left in pieces at the end of it all, and was forced into an asylum for _treatment_."

Pansy lolled her head back, the rain crashing down on her anguished face as she clenched her fists tightly. With a swift side-glance at Octavia, Hermione saw that the cold woman continued to gaze up at Mr Zabini's blank stare, their silent communications lingering.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Pansy opened her eyes and looked down at Hermione with palpable bloodlust.

"You cannot image the tortures at that asylums," Pansy laughed madly. "The unspeakable torments they do to their patients in the name of science. On the days that I felt anxious or wished to mourn those I lost … Those were the worst of days. The touching … in front of classes of doctors and students … the _molestation_. I was punished for losing the ones I loved most, while the true criminals went free of punishment. That is _why_ , Miss Granger – I am here to right the wrongs of this world of injustice."

Pansy stepped away from the women, coming to a stop between the two armed hitmen before inclining her head. Mr Malfoy saw the gesture and strode toward Hermione, grabbing her arm and hauling her up from the sandy shore.

"No!" Hermione screeched, pulling against his hold. "No, please! Mr Malfoy, please don't do this!"

Mr Malfoy remained entirely cold as he effortlessly restrained her, pulling her back against his chest, one arm locked around her neck, the other hand pressing the barrel of his gun to her temple.

"Mr Malfoy," Hermione blubbered incoherently. "Please, oh, please do not do this! I beg of you, sir, please!"

A shriek tore through the stormy sky as Mr Zabini snatched Octavia from the sand, his handling of her a little on the rough side. The lady shrieked and flailed against him, not ready to submit without a struggle, but it was useless. Mr Zabini snatched a fistful of her dishevelled, dirty curls, pulling her head back to align her face with his. The lady whimpered as he tucked the barrel of the gun against the underside of her chin, ensuring that her face lined with his until he decided otherwise.

"Lady Sinclair will be first to die," Pansy declared, watching the scene with absolute satisfaction and glee. "Mr Zabini, whenever you are ready, sir."

"My pleasure," Mr Zabini purred down at the scowling Octavia before bringing his lips closer to hers. "You thought you were so high above me, Lady Sinclair, but you are no different than I. I cannot express the pure gratification it brings me to know what you truly are beneath the beauty you display."

"Think what you will of me, Mr Zabini," Octavia groaned, feebly attempting to squirm away from him, but the gun and his hand in her hair didn't allow it. "I am what I am."

"And me?" Mr Zabini grinned wickedly, his smooth, seductive voice only heard by the pair of them. "What do you think of me?"

"I think you are despicable," Octavia spat. "I think you are cruel, and evil, and dangerous, sir."

"And what do you _feel_ for me?" Mr Zabini laughed, unfazed by her insults.

"You know what I feel for you, sir," Octavia glowered, her lips twitching, almost twisting into a smirk. "I feel for you what you feel for me."

To the others, it seemed as though he was taunting her in her last moments, but appearances could be so very far from the truth sometimes.

"That is what I like to hear," Mr Zabini grinned against her lips. "All I had to do was hold you at gun-point in order to wrench that confession from your sweet lips, Octavia."

Suddenly, Mr Zabini shoved Octavia away from him, her body landing harshly on the sandy shore as she gazed up at him. Mr Malfoy instantly followed suit, propelling Hermione away so she landed next to Octavia, both hitmen spinning to face the wide-eyed Pansy Parkinson, their guns aimed directly at her shocked face.

"Apologies, Lady Parkinson," Mr Malfoy said, absolutely no regret in his cold tone. "But when men like us find love, it is such a rare occurrence that we cannot simply pass it by."

Before Pansy could speak, two booming bangs ripped through the thick atmosphere, gunshots deafening all on the shore. Hermione screamed as Pansy was thrown back from the force of the shootings, her face torn apart by the close-range of the gunshots. Blood splattered in the air, joining and merging with the rain that fell down upon them in the most gruesome manner.

Mr Malfoy glanced at the corpse for a moment before tucking his revolver into his waistband. Turning, he swiftly approached a shocked Hermione on the sand, kneeling down in front of her as he cupped her cheek with one hand. His silver eyes assessed her blank features, confirming the state of shock she remained in. Suddenly, the shock gave way to violent sobs of relief and horror, so Mr Malfoy pulled her trembling body against his, embracing her in a gesture of comfort.

Mr Zabini eyed Octavia as she climbed to her feet rather gracefully, despite all the mud smeared over her body. Even in her current state, the lady exuded poise, grace, and absolute snobbery.

Flicking her dirty blonde curls over her shoulder, Octavia raised her nose in the air before stomping over to Mr Zabini. The moment she reached the stoic hitman, her hand shot out and belted him harshly across the face.

Mr Zabini ticked his jaw as he stared down at her darkly, but his brows raised suddenly – for Octavia had abruptly lunged at him, her lips crashing against his desperately. Mr Zabini grinned against her lips as his arm slipped around her slender waist, holding her body firmly against his. Whilst grinning in absolute triumph, Mr Zabini returned her passionate kiss, transforming it into something soft and romantic – loving.

And there they were, the perfect picture of the aftermath and what was to come: Mr Zabini and his equally as despicable lover, locked in a soft and tender kiss that contrasting greatly with the true depths of their black souls; Mr Malfoy comforting his distraught love, a woman so pure that she could never become what he truly was, but loving one another regardless.

And so it remained.

The despicable four.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

* * *

If Octavia had the energy to feel furious, she would. However, all energy stores had drained from her wet, cold and dirtied body. To discover that there had been a telephone on the island all along was most vexing, but Octavia did not complain on the matter. For with that telephone came a direct connection to the mainland, and therefore, their rescue via boat.

Placing her slender fingers in Mr Zabini's hand, Octavia allowed him to assist her onto the rocky boat docked at the boardwalk. A scruffy, greasy, slimy looking man stood swaying on the boat, giving her a toothy grin by means of greeting. Octavia repressed the urge to shudder from the sheer uncleanliness of the stranger, and used Mr Zabini's hand as leverage to climb steadily onto the yacht. The yacht was moderate in size, crafted from relatively polished steel, and possessed an under-level cabin. It was hardly the type of opulent yacht Octavia was used to in her lavish life, but it would make do for the water journey back to the mainland.

Mr Zabini gripped onto Octavia's slim waist as she jumped from the plank onto the harsh wooden floor of the boat, her suspicious gaze fixed on the stranger who bowed his head at her. Mr Malfoy carried the shocked, silent and still Hermione bridal-style onto the boat, inclining his head once at the stranger before disappearing down into the privacy of the cabin below.

"Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini introduced the two strangers, "this is Mr Filch – our booker."

"Your booker, sir?" Octavia frowned, glancing between the greasy man and the tanned hitman.

"Yes," Mr Zabini nodded. "Mr Filch assesses, selects and negotiates our assignments before extending them to us."

"I see," Octavia drawled, recalling the name from the first dinner party at Koppsynn's château. "I suppose you are the man who sent my letter of invitation, Mr Filch."

"That'd be me, ma'am," Mr Filch said. "Took care of everything, I did."

"How lovely," Octavia sniffed, her attitude contradicting her statement.

"Ah, perhaps Lady Sinclair harbours some resentment in your regard, Mr Filch," Mr Zabini grinned widely, eyeing the dirtied woman with palpable amusement. "I would exercise caution, Mr Filch – Lady Sinclair may look harmless, but she is quite deadly in actuality."

Mr Filch smiled grotesquely at the self-important woman before nodding once and retreating to the wheel of the yacht.

"Right then," Mr Filch called out, "off we go!"

"And just where is our destination?" Octavia asked, glancing up at Mr Zabini.

"The Isle of Skye," Mr Zabini smirked. "Off the banks of Scotland."

"Yes, I am aware of the location of the Isle of Skye, thank you," Octavia sighed, seating herself on a damp leathery bench-seat. "What is the purpose of our travels there?"

"We can't dock at the mainland here," Mr Zabini replied, seating himself on a crate across from her. "If anyone learns of the suspicions regarding Durrem Island, it would not serve us to be identified. As we departed the mainland on a weekday, we were not seen by many locals, but if we are to return to that port, it can increase the potential of being recognised."

"And what of the bodies at Durrem Island?" Octavia asked, picking at the dirt crusted beneath her fingernails.

"Mr Filch will return to clean up the evidence," Mr Zabini smirked, lighting himself a cigarette as he assessed the lady across from him. "We will stay at the Isle of Skye for two days before returning to the mainland."

Octavia nodded in approval, her blue lips quivering slightly from the cold that plagued her. The boat began to take off from the boardwalk, venturing out into the seaside in the direction of the Scottish Isles. The rainfall continued to pour down upon them, but the storm had dispersed considerably since the scene on the seashore. Octavia simply hoped that the storm would stay at bay, for she couldn't endure a rocky boat-ride, considering she was partial to sea-sickness.

Regardless, Octavia was entirely grateful for the yacht, despite the long, half-day journey ahead. If it was not for the boat, she would remain on the island for God knows how long, and that was simply hell in Octavia's opinion. How she longed to return to the mainland where she could slip back into her lavish lifestyle. Yet, that left one protruding issue … Mr Zabini, and his place in her life.

"Octavia," Mr Zabini said, his dark eyes fixed on her pensive expression. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Heaving a weary sigh, Octavia scolded herself for allowing her thoughts to show on her face. Normally, she was able to shield all signs of her mind's workings on her face, but in that moment, her exhaustion prevented such pretences. Therefore, Mr Zabini could easily read her. Then again, he appeared to possess a particular skill in ascertaining her private thoughts with a single glance.

"I do not," Octavia lied terribly, meeting his dark eyes as he inhaled his cigarette deeply.

Mr Zabini removed the butt of his cigarette from his lips, his tongue darting out to lick away the droplets of rain on the plump skin, his dark eyes never leaving her weary ones.

"You are in debt to me, Octavia," Mr Zabini said, his tone and gaze suddenly serious. "A life debt, to be precise. I want that debt to be repaid in marital union."

"That is blackmail, sir," Octavia drawled, earning a wide grin from the handsome Italian.

"I do not care if I am blackmailing you, Octavia," Mr Zabini grinned, flicking ash onto the wooden floor between them. "I will extort you every day if it means having you as my wife."

"You do not wish to court me first?" Octavia quirked her brow, swaying with the motions of the yacht on the waves. "How crude of you, sir."

"I have lain with you intimately, I have saved your life, I have seen the darkest parts of your soul, and I have come to know you like no other has before," Mr Zabini laughed. "I believe my courting of you to be rather moot at this point."

"When do you wish to marry?" Octavia sighed, gazing out at the wavy sea around them.

"As soon as we reach the island."

"So soon," Octavia said, meeting his even stare. "Why such haste?"

"Once a woman is married," Mr Zabini smirked, "she becomes a non-person in the eyes of the law. Your entire existence will be secondary to mine, so you cannot testify in court against me at any point for any cause. I do not trust you, Octavia."

"Yet you wish to wed me," Octavia raised her brows condescendingly.

"I love you," Mr Zabini shrugged, reclining against the stack of crates. "But I do not trust you. You are a vengeful woman, and if you feel particularly foul one day in my regard, I cannot be sure as to what you will do. This is a way of ensuring your utmost commitment and loyalty."

"I could always kill you," Octavia smiled sweetly.

"I do not think you capable," Mr Zabini laughed. "Yes, you are capable of murder, but of killing me? Hardly."

"Your arrogance is most impressive," Octavia praised falsely.

"Correct me if I am wrong," Mr Zabini grinned, "but I do not believe you have ever loved another before me. I know I haven't. Therefore, I am certain that you will not be able to end my life in an act of revenge, but to testify against me in a court of law is possible."

"That, in turn, would be murder," Octavia countered. "If I were to testify against you, sir, you would hang for your crimes, so in actuality, I would be killing you."

"I would not hang," Mr Zabini laughed arrogantly. "My connections are far too extensive for that fate to meet me. But imprisonment I cannot escape should you feel the urge to strike against me."

"And why would I seek revenge, sir?" Octavia asked calmly.

"Because I will be continuing in my profession," Mr Zabini said. "While my career pays incredibly well, my wealth is not to your standards. Once we are married, I will either convince your father to ensure the inheritance falls to you, or I will have no choice but to kill him."

"You will kill my father," Octavia repeated, processing his words. "In order to ensure my happiness."

Mr Zabini smirked as he assessed the contemplative lady, his gaze lingering over the smears of dirt caked onto her exquisitely pretty face. Her reaction was not what he had predicted, but he welcomed it wholly, for when she met his gaze, he saw only affection in her eyes.

"I am fond of my father," Octavia began, "however, I do require my wealth. If you are unable to convince my father to maintain my position as heiress, then you have my full support and permission, Mr Zabini."

"You surprise me, Octavia," Mr Zabini grinned. "I see you for what you are, yet you are a puzzle to me still."

"Enlighten me," Octavia quirked her brow.

"I was certain that you would prefer to return to your lavish lifestyle and marry into greater wealth, than to choose love."

"Why choose money and misery, when I can have money and love?" Octavia smirked.

"Precisely," Mr Zabini grinned triumphantly, flicking his cigarette onto the damp wooden floor.

"I have only one question," Octavia said, crossing her ankles politely.

"Yes?" Mr Zabini smirked, running his fingers through his thick, black hair.

"Do you enjoy killing?"

Mr Zabini quirked his brow in evident surprise, a smirk twisting at his pink, damp lips. After a pause, he pushed himself from the crate and closed the distance between them. Octavia watched coolly as he dropped to one knee at her legs, his hands taking hers to rest on her lap.

"Yes." Mr Zabini answered honestly, gazing up at her from beneath his lashes. "Perhaps it is because I enjoy killing that I understand you, Octavia. I do not want you to doubt this at any point from now on out – I love you, even that dark part of you. I do not think you ill or mad; I think you captivating, beautiful, damaged and alluring. What you deem ugly about your soul, is what drew me to you in the first place."

"You are not disgusted?" Octavia whispered, frowning in doubt.

"No," Mr Zabini smiled, clasping her hands firmly in his. "I already knew, Octavia. When your father hired my services to remove the footman, I was informed of the deed you had committed. Your father knew, but chose to not have you sentenced, and merely cleaned your mess. I saw you in the gardens of your estate the day I met with your father, and I saw it in you – no regret, no sadness, nothing. But I saw the judgement within you, the insecurities and self-doubts of what you are. I had never seen a woman so broken, yet whole and beautiful. I was not disgusted then, nor am I now."

"My father has not looked at me since, nor has my mother" Octavia frowned. "Surely we are the warped minds, and they are the sane?"

"That is exactly right," Mr Zabini grinned. "We are demented, Octavia. It is not normal to be as we are, and we will surely go to hell for the sins we have committed. But we will go together, and conquer the underworld."

Octavia smiled sweetly at the tanned man, affection shining in her watery hazel eyes. She leaned toward him and placed a tender kiss on his forehead, feeling whole at the acceptance he offered her – the acceptance she never thought herself worthy of.

"Do you agree to my proposal, Lady Sinclair?" Mr Zabini smirked, returning the sweet kiss, but onto her hands.

"I do," Octavia nodded, the sweetest smile twisting at her plump lips. "I have words of caution, however."

"Oh?" Mr Zabini grinned. "Do tell."

"Despite my love for you," Octavia said, the smile falling from her lips, "I am a killer, Mr Zabini. Should you break my heart, I will end your life without hesitation."

Mr Zabini laughed lightly, pushing himself to stand before curving his body over hers. With one hand resting on the back of the bench, Mr Zabini used his other hand to cup her face before placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

Their lips remained connected when he spoke, "I assure you, my love, that advice extends to you also."

*.*.*

In the cabin beneath the helm of the rocking boat, Hermione sat propped up against the small bedhead. Mr Malfoy perched himself on the edge of the bed, his hand resting comfortingly on her knee, his other hand brushing stray curls from her muddied face. The state of shock had both dispersed and remained, leaving her in a sort of limbo-type condition, aware of her own thoughts, aware of what had transpired, but unable to fully come to terms with the unravelled events.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to meet Mr Malfoy's intense silver eyes, despite knowing that he had saved her life. The sting of betrayal lingered within her, for he had been a part of the orchestrated ploy all along, had killed so many of the others, and had lured her into bed with him in the process. Perhaps pride had a lot to do with the ache inside of her, but Hermione couldn't dismiss the bitterness she felt at his treachery.

"Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy said softly, coaxing her to meet his gaze. "You are safe now."

Resisting the mild urge to scoff, Hermione kept her gaze fixed on his hand, watching as it discreetly caressed her stocking-clad knee. His finger occasionally fiddled with the patches of dirt and torn fabric. The realisation was fleeting in her relatively numb state.

"Was it worth it, Mr Malfoy?" Hermione croaked, hooded eyes focused on his suddenly stilling hand. "Was the death and mark on your soul worth the money Lady Parkinson paid to you?"

"I received no payment for this assignment," Mr Malfoy said. "All payments are given upon completion, which never occurred in this particular case."

Hermione nodded weakly, watching as his hand resumed its prior ministrations of a soothing nature on her damp knee. The residue of rainwater and dirt now smeared onto his pale fingers, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

"Yes." Mr Malfoy relented after a brief pause. "It was worth it."

"It was worth taking lives that are not yours to take?" Hermione frowned, judgement radiating from her soaked pores. "And to receive no payment for such sinful deeds?"

"I may not have been paid for my efforts, Miss Granger, but that should not suggest that I received no payment at all."

"You think I am payment for your crimes?"

"I believe you are the ultimate prize," Mr Malfoy conceded. "Albeit, one I do not deserve. However, I am determined to claim you, Miss Granger."

"Claim me," Hermione repeated breathlessly. "You speak as though I am nothing but gold, sir."

"And what fine gold you are," Mr Malfoy smirked teasingly, but the woman did not respond to his humour.

"You lied to me, Mr Malfoy," Hermione said, sadly meeting his gaze. "You wooed me under false pretences, you took advantage of my fear and capitalised on my will to live. You are despicable."

"I never claimed otherwise," Mr Malfoy sighed regretfully. "I preferred to remove Lady Parkinson prior to your realisation, and for you to continue living in blissful ignorance of what I have done. However, it did not transpire in my favour, for your intellect did not allow it."

"Oh," Hermione scoffed weakly. "Well, if that is the case, Mr Malfoy, I suppose you are relieved of all crimes and wrongdoings."

"You resent me for the occurrences at Durrem Island, but I am merely the messenger," Mr Malfoy said. "I am the employee who defected in favour of saving your life, Miss Granger. It was not I who invited you to the château, nor was it my name on the invitation you received."

"It was nobody's name on the invitation," Hermione argued. "A ghost of a person who does not exist."

"Is that so?" Mr Malfoy smirked, his hand brushing over her knee gently. "It was not Lady Parkinson's name on the invitation?"

"Are you daft, sir?" Hermione bit, meeting his glinting silver eyes. "Lady Sarina Koppsynn was the sender of the invite; a woman who does not exist."

"Doesn't she?" Mr Malfoy grinned, unfazed by her bitterness and hostility. "Sarina Koppsynn is such an unusual name, wouldn't you agree?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the gentleman, filled to the brim with vexation and sensations of betrayal, but didn't respond.

"I have never come across the surname before, have you?" Mr Malfoy pressed further, evidently eager for Hermione to arrive at a conclusion he had already reached. "It is an anagram, Miss Granger. Similar to that of Durrem Island."

"Durrem Island equates to Murder Island," Hermione said sternly. "We all knew that."

"Yes, but no one has solved the anagram of Lady Sarina Koppsynn to my knowledge."

Hermione frowned as she mulled over the foreign name belonging to a person who did not exist. Her mind cleared of all imagery, leaving a blank canvas for the name to appear in bold. Slowly, her mind processed the letters, mixing and muddling them all together, piece by piece, until she reached the answer.

"Lady Sarina Koppysnn equates to Lady Pansy Parkinson," Hermione breathed, scolding herself for not realising it before now. "The answer was there all along in the name."

"Yes," Mr Malfoy smirked. "It was almost as though she wished to be discovered before the end. It is a risky clue to leave, I think."

"Risky?" Hermione raised her brows. "It is so much more than risky, sir. It is suicide."

"Exactly," Mr Malfoy smirked. "Lady Parkinson clearly harboured a sliver of desire to be discovered during the days at Durrem Island, yes? But if she were to be discovered, I am certain that countless guests would have sought revenge on the woman. If anyone had learned of the anagram before their deaths, Lady Parkinson would have truly died at the hands of the victims. Quite a suicidal and masochistic risk to take, I would think."

"Why would she leave such a clue?"

"Because Lady Parkinson wished to die," Mr Malfoy answered. "Our orders were to end her life once all other guests were seen to. She wished to die on that island with the perpetrators of her misery."

"Why are you telling me this, Mr Malfoy?" Hermione asked suspiciously. "It makes no difference to me now, so why relay this information to me?"

"I want you to know," Mr Malfoy said softly, "that no matter how melancholic you are feeling at the moment, it can be so much worse. Lady Parkinson felt alone, because she was alone – there was no one left on the earth who loved her. Not even Lady Sinclair loved her … Though, I am certain that Lady Sinclair is incapable of the emotion in regards to anyone other than Blaise, but that is another matter entirely. What I mean for you to understand is that, even though you are in despair at present, you have love around you. I love you, and you are not alone in this world, Miss Granger. The misery you feel at the moment is temporary, and it will pass."

"I have a killer who loves me," Hermione whispered dryly. "How fortunate."

"It is fortunate, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy said severely. "Without my sentiments in your favour, you would not have left that island. Without my love for you, you would have no love in this world. I do not know what it feels like to be without love, for I have my mother and Blaise, but I imagine that it is an awful feeling, and one that could send a person into the pits of despair that Lady Parkinson clearly resided within."

"What brings you to the conclusion that I am without love?" Hermione countered.

"You have not mentioned it," Mr Malfoy smirked. "In all our time together at Durrem Island, I have never heard you once mention a family member, a friend, or a sweetheart. Your profession as a governess is a clue, I believe. In this career, you travel into the homes of others and share the traces of love with children you nurture, for you do not have your own to raise. You observe the love of those around you, but do not have your own to appreciate. You are lonely, Miss Granger, and that is a dangerous thing."

"And you wish to save me from that," Hermione laughed bitterly. "You are my White Knight, racing in on a white horse to save me from the fate of loneliness and spinsterhood, yes? How valiant of you, sir."

"You mock me, but you want it," Mr Malfoy grinned, tucking a single curl behind her ear. "And I hardly believe I am comparable to a White Knight. Perhaps more of a devil in disguise with a particular fondness for a forlorn angel?"

"My sins are pale in comparison to yours, but I am no angel, sir."

"Oh, but you are," Mr Malfoy smiled, cupping her dirtied cheek gently. "And I intend on appropriating my angel."

Hermione gazed at him curiously for a moment before she averted her eyes to his drenched shirt, reeking of self-loathing and sadness. The truth of the matter was that Hermione was not repulsed by the suggested unity between them both, but repulsed by her own desire for such a unity. After all, the man was as cruel and despicable as they came, and would spend an eternity in the fires of hell for his sins. Therefore, if she were to accept him, would that send her to hell for her choice? Or would the good in her spark a change within the man, and thereby, redeem him? She didn't know, but she suspected the former.

"I cannot claim to be comfortable with your implications, sir," Hermione said quietly. "A man of your nature … It is toxic, and I am unable to accept the monster within you, Mr Malfoy."

"You demonstrated no challenge with accepting me before, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy smirked. "In fact, the hesitance you are currently displaying only appeared once your realised my participation in the massacre on the island. However, you were aware of my skills, profession and capabilities prior to that discovery."

"I thought I was going to die, Mr Malfoy. I acted on impulse and desires, for I did not know that I would leave that island."

"Yet, you have," Mr Malfoy said. "Because I followed through on my promise to you, Miss Granger. And now I want you as my wife."

"I cannot agree to that, sir."

"I understand that you are hurt, Miss Granger." Mr Malfoy sighed, but remained undeterred. "You undoubtedly feel betrayal at my actions, but I did not endanger you. I protected you. As a suitor, I should be considered, for I am reasonably wealthy, fiercely protective and loyal, and will always ensure your happiness, Miss Granger."

"Yet, you are a killer, and that fact remains."

"You allow society's expectations of purity and sin to delegate your values, Miss Granger. You are much smarter than that, I believe. With me, you will have what you want most, and that is not love."

"You do not love me?"

"I do, very much so, Miss Granger." Mr Malfoy said. "I am merely referring to that burning desire within you – something not available to a woman of your standing."

"What is that?"

"Knowledge and power. With me as your husband, you are able to pursue whatever career you like, if any at all. I will support your decision if you wish to continue working, of course I would prefer you did not."

Hermione considered his promise for a moment, aware that it was a rare understanding to find in a husband in those times. As a woman and wife, Hermione would be expected to remain at home to care for their potential children, but Mr Malfoy was offering an extension of worth in her life that was unknown to her.

"What about writing?" Hermione asked unsurely, meeting his triumphant stare. "Do not misunderstand me, Mr Malfoy. I am not agreeing to this proposal, but it is a thought I must inquire on."

"You can write every day for the rest of your life, Miss Granger, and you may share your knowledge with whomever you desire. Not every woman and man has the opportunity to learn, read or write, and I see something within you that wishes to share your knowledge with those people."

Hermione nodded slowly, processing his promises of value in her life, but remained unconvinced. For to accept such an impossibly generous proposition would be to sell her soul to the devil himself, and in exchange, she would receive capped freedom and abundant love from a hitman.

However, his earlier claims had been accurate – Hermione had no family, friends or sweetheart, other than the man caressing her cheek tenderly. Her family had perished in the poor house many years ago, and the only friends she had ever had were the servants at estates she worked at over the years. But even so, they were better described as colleagues than friends. With Mr Malfoy, she could have a family and husband she loved, something she didn't believe to be available to her, due to her lowly status and demanding profession. In truth, as a female suitor, Hermione was at the bottom of the barrel – she offered no dowry, no land, no wealth, and no status. Yet there she was, being presented with a tempting offer from a tempting man, and Hermione was smart enough to know that another offer of such value would not come again in her lifetime.

So with a swelling, yet heavy heart, Hermione swallowed thickly, leaned in to his touch, feeling a single tear trickle down her cheek. And the most despicable part of her couldn't help but feel total happiness at her following words, for she was accepting the man she loved, despite his demons.

"I will marry you, sir."

* * *

EIGHT MONTHS LATER

* * *

Draco Malfoy reclined against the carved and immaculate wall of the grand foyer, picking at his fingernails as he eyed the gruesome scene before him. The blood of his victims was smeared across his otherwise immaculate appearance; staining his crisp, white shirt; droplets of the crimson liquid in his silky, blonde hair; coating his expensive, shiny, black shoes. Worst of all, however, the stubborn residue of life remained beneath his dirtied fingernails, despite his incessant attempts to remove the blood with the blade of his knife.

Blaise Zabini stood beside him, thoroughly exhausted from their efforts as he, too, reclined against the wall. Instead of demonstrating concern about his bloodied appearance, however, Blaise merely smoked a cigarette from the carton found in the jacket pocket of the eldest corpse in front of them.

A massacre had taken place at the Devonshire Manor in southeast England that day. The reason for such an attack on the family remained unknown by both hitmen, but neither showed much concern in that regards. They simply accepted the contract and performed the gruesome deed, as they always did.

"How is your wife?" Blaise asked, smoke billowing from nostrils and lips.

"Well," Draco nodded, successfully removing a crust of blood from his index fingernail.

"Octavia has attempted to organise a brunch with her," Blaise explained, flicking ash onto the pool of blood on the floor. "She claimed that Mrs Malfoy has not responded to her letter."

"Hermione is still adjusting to her pregnancy," Draco informed. "I do not believe she wishes to be around our sort any more than necessary until the child is born."

"Our sort?" Blaise grinned widely. "You are 'our sort' too, Draco."

"Yes, but she can hardly ignore her own husband, can she?" Draco sighed. "Although, she does try at times. I read a pamphlet at the doctor's clinic last week."

"And?"

"It claimed that women experience extensive hormonal shifts during their pregnancies," Draco frowned. "I believe that to be the cause for her precarious temperament of late."

"What do you mean?"

"Hermione has begun to resist my profession more and more as her pregnancy goes on," Draco said. "She thinks that it will be a negative influence on our child when he is born."

"And what is your opinion?"

"My opinion is that Hermione is driving me insane," Draco scoffed, lighting himself a cigarette. "Everything I do is wrong, and everything she says is right."

"That is marriage," Blaise laughed. "Octavia is no different."

"Yes, but your wife is not with child." Draco countered. "So I am optimistic that once the child is born, I will no longer be reprimanded on a daily basis. The earful I received merely for accepting this contract lasted an hour, Blaise. Honestly, I love the woman, but those pamphlets on foetus development are filling her head with too many ideas."

"Too many?" Blaise grinned. "You married her for that reason – the woman is fond of harbouring opinions, and doesn't hesitate to express them."

"Yes, well, I liked it when I wasn't on the receiving end," Draco scowled, almost childishly.

"You know how the saying goes," Blaise winked. "A happy wife, a happy life."

A loud crashing sound ripped through the air, followed by a few clangs of platters and metal objects. Muffled curse words echoed out front the room across the foyer, the familiar voice silencing as a wretched scream tore out. Blaise's brows shot up suddenly as he handed Draco his half-smoked cigarette, an expression of panic morphing at his features.

"Take this," Blaise whispered urgently, extending the cigarette to a smirking Draco.

"Why?" Draco grinned. "So I can smoke two cigarettes at once?"

"Shut up," Blaise snapped, tossing the cigarette into the pool of blood. "If she asks, I wasn't smoking."

"Are you trying to make a liar out of me?" Draco laughed, inhaling his cigarette deeply.

Before Blaise could respond, the doors across the foyer opened, in stepping Lady Octavia Zabini. The blonde beauty appeared in much the same fashion as the men – covered head-to-toe in the blood of her victims, but featured a brilliantly tranquil expression on her pretty face.

"I found a maid in the closet," Octavia said breathlessly, flicking her crimson curls over her shoulder. "The woman gave me quite the fright."

Blaise smirked as he eyed his mad wife, his black eyes drinking in her gruesome appearance. The lady sighed blissfully as she met his gaze before trotting over to him with a palpable spring in her step. But Octavia's expression of bliss swiftly darkened as she came to a stop before her husband, her hazel eyes narrowing dangerously.

Blaise's smirk faltered as Octavia took one determined step toward him, a long, silver dagger clasped in her right hand. The lady raised her upturned nose slowly as she pointedly sniffed the air, Blaise almost whitening in fear.

"Have you been smoking, Blaise?" Octavia asked quietly, a dark, dangerous undertone to her voice.

"No," Blaise smirked, but it seemed rather forced. "Draco is."

Octavia shiftily glanced at Draco Malfoy as he inhaled a deep drag of his cigarette and smirked at the lady. But Octavia appeared to be unconvinced as she met her husband's almost panicked black eyes.

"Open your mouth." Octavia ordered coolly, leaning up on her tip toes.

Blaise reluctantly parted his lips, his wife sniffing at his breath once before she dropped back down to her heels.

"You liar!" Octavia snapped, whacking him harshly on the chest as he clenched his jaw. "I told you, Blaise Zabini, no more smoking! It is bad for your health! The pamphlet said so! Do you not _care_ about your health Blaise? Do you not _care_ that you will die prematurely and leave me on this earth without you? All for some blasted cigarettes?!"

"I had one," Blaise admitted, wincing as she slapped his chest again. "I swear, it was only one, Octavia."

Octavia whipped up her hand, pointing the sharp tip of the blade right at his face as her eyes narrowed in on him. Blaise clenched his jaw, but fell silent as Draco watched in clear amusement.

"We will discuss this later, Blaise," Octavia promised dangerously.

Nodding slowly, Blaise licked his lips to sneakily relish in the taste of tobacco – a taste he would not be allowed to enjoy for however long. Unless he snuck out at night again to smoke one in the gardens of his home, like he usually did. However, the thought of Octavia catching him was a shudder-worthy prospect indeed.

"Now," Octavia smiled sweetly, stepping away from her mildly relaxing husband. "I need assistance – there is a small dog in the kitchens, and she won't come to me. I want to take her home, so catch her for me, please."

"We have too many dogs, Octavia," Blaise groaned, pushing himself from the wall.

"I like them," Octavia shrugged, a pleading pout twisting at her lips.

Heaving a weary sigh, Blaise inclined his head once to permit her not-request. If he were to deny the request, he would not hear the end of her whining and badgering for days on end, so it was much easier to simply relent. Octavia squealed in delight as she turned and skipped back over to the room she had come from, presumably to return to the kitchens.

Before Blaise fell into step behind his wife, he shared an exhausted, pointed glance with Draco, but his friend seemed anything but sympathetic.

"I think our wives need to spend less time reading ideological pamphlets," Blaise groaned, eyeing Draco's cigarette with palpable envy.

"What was it you said to me?" Draco grinned, mocking his scolded and dejected friend with glee. "Oh, yes, how could I forget. A happy wife, a happy life, my friend."

* * *

 **THE END.**


End file.
